Lonely Angel
by Oreal770
Summary: Erik's life was full of pain... follow him through his childhood, through the horrors of the gypsy camp and read about his life in the opera house... And there is someone with a childhood regret... **I OWN NOTHING!** Now Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Lonely Angel**

**Chapter 1**

The whole house was silent in anticipation of what was happening in the master bedroom, upstairs. Well I say the whole house, all except one room. The master bedroom was filled with cries of pain and struggling. Outside that room, a man paced up and down, never ceasing in his footsteps. His wife was struggling, she had been quite weak for about a week – and she had finally gone into labour. She struggled, just through the closed door, to give birth to his first child. She had told him she was sure it would be a boy. He wasn't going to contradict her.

The lady of the house gave another almighty push as the next contraction hit. The doctor assured her it would be over soon, well it had bloody better be, otherwise she would probably collapse. She couldn't remember ever being _close_ to being this knackered. But she was determined to bring her child into the world. She knew it to be a son, she had been so pleased when she found out that she was to deliver her husband a child.

The next scream almost had the husband running in there, and a couple of the servants who had been parents winced in memory, they didn't envy the poor woman upstairs. Suddenly, the screams ceased and a small cry echoed through the otherwise silent house. The silence erupted, servants jumping up and down and grinning at each other. They had a new master, or mistress.

At the cry, the man of the house could contain himself no longer, and launched himself through the door that hid his family from him. He gazed down at his wife, her face pale and weak, but smiling. The doctor looked frozen as he gazed down at the baby in his arms. He suddenly grabbed a blanket and covered the child, to an extent where it could be passed off as fear. The doctor held the small bundle to him, looking slightly wild. The main man turned to him.

"Well, can I not see my son? Erik I believe, will be his name. Unless," he paused, looking closely at the man, "Is it a girl?" the doctor looked paralysed, until he slowly shook his head.

"N – no, um. It is male." The man, now a father, walked over to him, towering over him. He took the bundle from the doctor.

"Then what is the problem? My poor son, Erik." He shook his head as the doctor crossed himself and fled from the room. "What of my wife?" He called after him.

"She will be fine." Came the distant reply. The man frowned at the door, then lowered his eyes to the small bundle as it gave a small cry. He smiled slightly and uncovered the baby's face. As he looked into his son's face for the first time, his smile froze. It would be the only one the small child would see for a long time. The smile slid off his face as he inspected his child's face. He gave a strangled cry and sat down on the bed quickly.

"No." He muttered, his child was perfect, from his baby toe to the side of his face. But that wasn't enough. The right side of the little bundle's face looked as if a knife had been taken to it. The skin was red raw, with lumps and crevices. His right eye was slightly lower than his left and it seemed as if he barely had an ear. The deformity continued round the side of his head, where people would usually have hair. The left side of his head had dark brown tufts all over it, but there was only thin, listless hair on the right side.

The father's hands shook as he beheld his son. He seemed unaware of his wife's quiet voice trying to make itself heard until she sat up behind him and tried to take the child from him. He gripped it harder and stood up away from her. She looked at him, confused.

"My baby?" She asked in a small voice. "What is wrong with my baby? My little Erik." Her voice shook, tears threatening to fall. He placed the child down on a small table and went over to her, stroking her hair, muttering comforting words.

"Shhhh." He crooned. "My darling, I regret to inform you." She stood up, quickly, swaying slightly.

"What? What is it?" She asked in a shrill voice. She made her way over to the baby, stumbling. Her husband made it at the same time. He placed his hand in hers, to comfort her as she slowly revealed her son to herself. The resulting scream echoed through the house as she dropped into her husband's arms. He heaved her to the bed.

The servants' smiles faded quickly. What was going on, that resulted in the doctor fleeing from the house as if it was the devil's own home, and, possibly the same thing, that caused the heart-broken scream to pierce the quiet. Now they feared what the man of the house would do in his anger. He always had a bit of a temper on him.

Sure enough, the man made his way out of the bedroom quickly, and soon crashes of things being thrown across the room was heard. The servants all breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn't taking his anger out on them. He never hurt them physically, but they all felt terrified out of their wits when he began to shout. Up in the nursery, Erik's father stood, panting, in a pile of broken toys. He quickly picked up a small baby suit. No, that wouldn't do. He looked around for inspiration, and spied a small rag on the floor. Perfect. He knelt on the floor and used a small knife he kept on him from habit and cut a couple of small holes in it. Then he made his way back to his wife and child.

He entered the room to see his wife had regained consciousness and was sitting, looking rather forlornly at the small child lying on the table. He went over to his son and wrapped the rag round his face, showing it to be a mask of sorts. He then pulled Erik roughly into the baby suit. He left the boy where he had been and went over to comfort his wife, who looked up at him, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks.

"What did I do wrong?" she pleaded with him in a small voice, "I always tried to be good, but my child, my poor little Erik." She paused, sobbing quietly. "What did I do to cause my poor child to be possessed by the devil?" she broke down, sobbing into her husband's chest. He tried to comfort her, stroking her hair. He could think of no answers for her questions. He comforted her as he best could, humming softly into her ear.

"You have done nothing. Don't blame yourself for what happened. I don't know the reasons that God couldn't protect our child, but together we shall try our best to drive the devil out of him. Erik, our son, he must be in there somewhere. We will get our son. Don't blame yourself, it's not your fault." He told her softly. And he meant every word, they would release their son from the evil that possessed him, if they had to force it out.

They tried desperately for years with the belief that their son was possessed by the devil. Poor Erik wasn't allowed out of the house for fear of being seen. The neighbours were confused about the secretive nature of that family. They couldn't fathom how their son wouldn't leave the house for everyone was aware of the pregnancy, now they declined all such nonsense.

Approximately a year after the tragic birth of Erik, his mother found herself in labour again. At first, they were terrified to learn of the upcoming birth, but the parents were very religious and couldn't take a child out of the world, even if it hadn't been born yet. So Erik's parents' house was once again filled with screams, a corridor was once again being paced. Only this time there was another in the house, a small boy, sitting in his room. He worried about the loud screams filling the house. A different doctor delivered the child – the other one had mysteriously vanished a year before. As another infant's cry echoed through the corridors, the father once again hurtled into the delivery room. His wife lay as before, she would be fine. But the father had eyes only for his child.

He took him from the doctor, who stood with a small smile on his face. He almost wept to see a perfect face smile up at him. He smiled at his son, because the infant was a boy. He looked over to his wife, who lay with many worry lines creasing her beautiful face. He smiled at her.

"He's perfect." He said, and saw her eyes fill with tears. He went over to her and gave her a hug and showed her the baby. She caressed her son's face, a large smile lighting up her face. She hugged her husband back.

"Thank you." She said, he decided not to ask the reason for her thanks, she was in a sensitive mood. "What shall we call him?" She asked him, they had gone through baby names, but couldn't decide on one. He looked into his son's eyes, an idea forming in his mind.

"What about Henri?" he asked. The child seemed to fit it, his black hair thick, even though he was only minutes old. She smiled at the little boy and nodded her head, Henri was perfect.

The doctor had let himself out, they would both be fine. The servants bombarded him with questions when he made his way downstairs, and he assured them that both the baby and the mother would be perfectly fine. She had delivered a beautiful baby boy. They seemed to be satisfied, and let him leave. He whistled all the way home.

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**Review please :) Dont know if it's any good??? ... **


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Over the next few years it became obvious that Erik would always be in Henri's shadow. Their parents showered praise onto Erik's hated little brother, whereas whenever Erik achieved something, they seemed certain it was the devil's work and took a belt to him until he bled. This was usually followed by Erik being resigned to his room for several days with scarcely any food. At these times, Erik usually lay on the floor (he wasn't allowed a bed – until the demons were driven out) with his back to the door.

At first when he managed to escape from the buckle of the belt scarring his back, Erik ran to his room, the tears making silent tracks down his face. He lay on the floor for a bit, on his face; a small child, facing the evils of the world on his own, nobody to help him. When the tears could no longer fall, Erik usually slept for a few hours until nightfall was well on the way. Erik couldn't sleep any longer, and he embraced the night, it meant nobody was going to come to beat him. Everyone was asleep. Erik finally moved from where he had been laying and pressed his sore back against the closed door. He closed his eyes again, not really expecting to fall asleep, and hummed to himself. Nobody came to help him, he was on his own, left by the world, ignored by his parents who wished they didn't have the responsibility of him, wished they had only Henri. Perfect Henri, Erik often found himself thinking with malice. Wouldn't love him so much if his face was like mine. He wondered for hours what it would be like to have a normal face like Henri's. At these times, the music flowing from his closed lips was full of melancholy and many people's hearts would have gone out to the small child.

This routine was repeated many times over the years, when Erik started to walk, when Erik managed to have a few minutes on his mother's piano – to have her come in, screaming and wrench him off the bench. Erik could never understand that. He thought she loved music, she played often enough. Henri had often sat at that piano and made Erik feel ill the way he banged on the keys, creating a terrible sound that reverberated in his head until he sat on his own, humming to himself, dark, miserable tunes.

As the children reached their fourth and fifth birthdays, Erik had permanent scars on his back, and more permanent scars on his mind. He had seen how different he was treated. He had used his vast knowledge to work out that Henri never had a beating, even when he spilt mother's favourite vase onto the floor and it smashed. All he got was a telling off, not even a smack with the back of his hand. Erik knew he was different when Henri got presents every year, and Erik had to watch, hidden away, when Henri's friends from school came over and they all laughed. Erik had never laughed, he never had reason to. He had never smiled, sometimes he tried, in the mirror – with the mask covering half of his face – but it always seemed so hopeless, he wasn't sure _how_. He didn't even know what it looked like directly, because nobody had ever smiled at him, or laughed with him. Henri had laughed _at_ him, but Erik had always turned away, he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing him cry when the whip broke the skin over and over again.

Erik would always remember the first time he had seen his face, his father had grabbed the back of his collar and lifted him from the room after Erik had asked why he was different from Henri, why Henri wasn't often attacked with the painful whip. His father had pulled him into the bathroom and lifted him off the floor so he could see in the mirror over the sink. Then he had pulled the rough mask from his son's face and shown him his own face. Erik had been speechless, gazing into the mirror. He brought his hand up and traced the bumps and crevices on the right side of his face, until he was certain it was _really_ his face. Then he couldn't stop the tears. He clawed at his face, hating it, hating the way he was treated because of it. His father let him scrape until he was bleeding, then dropped him on the floor, where he crawled away from the mirror in fear. He felt the pain in his face, but for that moment he didn't care. He was up and running when he encountered his mother in the hall and her eyes widened momentarily, until she saw her husband coming out behind him and lowered her eyes to the floor and ignored Erik.

Erik's mother avoided hitting him. She always submitted to what her husband would do. She hardly ever shouted at him too, but panicked when she saw him on her precious piano – she worried that the devil was about to remove the one output she had. Then she saw the after scars of his punishment and almost broke down. Sometimes she hated what was happening, but her husband kept telling her it was necessary, to drive the demon out. She believed him as best she could, but couldn't help but notice what it was doing to her son.

The day her husband brought the offer to her about the gypsy fair, she refused without a second thought, 'what about driving the devil out of him? In that place, the devil would blossom!' but he kept on. He insisted that they could no longer fight the devil. It had grown in him, the small child that was now almost six. They couldn't handle him anymore, and what about Henri? Did she want him to be badly influenced by him? Well of course, she couldn't compete with him when he was certain he was right. He always got his own way, but he could be such a nice person, calming and cool, but he did have a bit of a temper on him. It probably _was_ better for Erik to be taken by the gypsies, they couldn't do that to Henri, and he would be with his own kind.

When Erik found out he was going to the fair with his father, he was thrilled. He must have done something right at last! He skipped around the house, singing, until his father threatened to force him to shut up, where he sat down silently, worried he was about to have his treat taken away from him. He fidgeted, excited, whilst Henri looked on hatefully. What had _Erik_ done to let him have a trip to the fair? Hadn't _he_ just managed to reach the end of the school year? Hadn't father said he was really pleased with him, and asked him what he wanted. When he said he wanted Erik gone, he didn't mean he wanted Erik to be able to go to the fair! Heck, Henri wanted to go to the fair!

He begged, he pleaded. He sulked and whined, but father said he was NOT allowed to go with Erik. Erik would be going to the fair **on his own**. Henri was in a bad mood the entire week before the trip to the fair, father said he had to organise some things before they could go. Their mother was constantly jittery that week, she couldn't sit down and was always ringing her hands – she was as bad as Erik, only Henri and Erik couldn't figure out _why_ she was worried. Erik assured her he would be a good boy at the fair and do what he was told. He told her he would always be a good boy and that he was 'a thousand times sorry for everything I've done before, I promise I'll be good forever and ever now.' When she heard this, she shook her head and left quickly, he had no idea, poor thing.

When _finally_ the day came, Erik was up really early and found himself unable to sleep. He couldn't sit still, but wouldn't _dare_ wake anyone up. He actually _wanted_ to go. He didn't want to spend his life in his room, or face the whip. He shuddered at the thought of the whip, he had escaped it this week, doing everything he was told. Not doing anything, unless you count sitting in the living room, swinging his legs, being naughty. He really wanted to leave, but knew they couldn't go at 5am, so he spent his time with his back to the wall, humming fast, excitable tunes. At one point, he went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. He saw his own reflection smiling back at him. He was _actually __**smiling**_!

When he heard his father getting up, he opened his bedroom door and went downstairs. He saw his mother in the kitchen and piped a greeting to her,

"Good morning mother." He said, she turned round and gasped, her son was looking up at her with a huge smile on his face. This was when she realised she had never actually seen him smile before, and how different he looked because of it. He could actually be passed off as a normal child, well, not quite. The mask gave a bit to be desired. Suddenly, she didn't want him to go, she wanted to see his smile every morning, and his little greeting. She smiled back.

"Good morning, Erik." Erik was shocked, was that a tear in her eye? What had he done? Why was she speaking to him so quietly? Like she spoke to Henri. A thought came into his head, and he decided to ask.

"Mother?" he asked, suddenly shy.

"Yes, Erik?" she asked, with a tearful smile. He was so polite, so different to Henri. He shifted his feet a little.

"Um. Would it be ok. Um. I mean, am I allowed to. Um. Can I - ?" he bit his lip.

"What is it, Erik?" she asked, curiously.

"Can I hug you?" he asked in a rush, going pink. His mother froze for a moment, the poor thing, she had forgotten he had never had a hand placed on him in kindness. He had never known anything that all normal children had. She gave a quick look towards the door, knelt down and gave Erik a quick hug. As she straightened up, she tried not to stop the tears falling, as he looked a bit confused. He looked up, smiled at her and ran out of the room.

"Thank you mother." She heard as he left. She lowered her eyes and turned back to the stove, and the tears began to fall,

"Goodbye Erik." She said to herself. It was all for the best, wasn't it? He was a – a devil? How could anyone compare that little innocent child as a devil? She had never seen him actually doing something evil. He was always so polite and clean. He always feared the whip, oh how she hated the yells of her little child. No. It was the best. He belonged there. Didn't he? She shook her head. Her husband was in charge, she had to do what he said, and he was so sure Erik should be there. She could never persuade him different.

Erik went into the dining room and saw his father's turned back. He piped out the same greeting.

"Good morning father." He span round, quickly. As he saw his little son, he smiled. Finally, it would only be Henri. And he was sure that his wife would understand once Erik was gone, after the devil had left their lives, she would be free. He looked down into his son's open face. He was smiling! Hmm, that seemed wrong, he would have to fix that. Well the gypsies would probably do his job for him. Was handing the devil over to the gypsies a bad thing? Of course not, they had tried their best. What more could they do?

Erik was jittery when they finally left, bouncing on the carriage seat until his father placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Keep still for God's sake. Are you _trying_ to overturn us?" Erik immediately sat still as a statue, not moving an inch. His eyes still darted around, gazing out of the window and trying to see everything at once. He had never left the house before! It was all an amazing adventure to him. His father smiled to see him so excited; the devil would be even more upset when he found out what was really happening. And he _loved_ upsetting the devil.

They arrived and Erik's father opened the carriage door. Erik flew out of the door, right into his father's arms, which held him tight. Erik was confused, this wasn't like the hug he had had with his mother earlier, this one _hurt_. He began to struggle.

"Please, father!" He begged, "Put me down, I'll stay beside you, I promise. I'll be good! Please!" His father just gripped his limbs harder, painfully. Erik tried to break the grip. His father dropped him, and he fell to the floor, and froze for a second, dazed. That was long enough for his father to grip his wrist strongly, and pull him to his feet.

"Now, you little _demon_." He began. He lowered his face to his son's, and smiled evilly. "This is your home now, God knows we've tried to get the devil out of you, but it seems our attempts were in vain." He paused, to strike Erik round the face. He fell to the floor, heavily. His father grabbed him again. "You're with your own kind now. You'll feel more at home here." He shoved him backwards, into the hands of a gypsy.

"This the kid?" asked the man, holding Erik tightly. Erik struggled harder, trying to escape. The man just laughed at him. "You aren't going anywhere my little friend." And he stroke Erik round the head, Erik fell to the floor again. The new man looked towards Erik's father. "How much?" He asked.

The two of them haggled for a price for a while, whilst Erik stood, struggling against the strong gypsy. He tried to beg his father not to do this.

"Please father! I'll be good, I swear. I'll do whatever you want. I'll –" Erik broke off, as the gypsy cursed at him and knocked him to the floor.

"Does he always talk this much?" he asked Erik's father with malice.

"Only when he's scared." Came the reply. The gypsy nodded, grinned and agreed on the price that had just come up. Then he hoisted Erik from the floor, away from his father,

"Please Father!" was the last Erik's father heard as he strode away, his fist clenched around the money he'd just been given. He sat down in the carriage and left the 'fair', never to return.

As for Erik, he was taken and thrown into a cage, kicked into a corner. The cage door closed, and Erik saw his owner smile evilly down on him.

"Yes. You'll be my new attraction, the devil's child."

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**Let me know how I'm doing, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease...  
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	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The days with the gypsies were dark days indeed. The days were always the same as the day before, and Erik quickly lost track of time. Was it yesterday? Or tomorrow? Or even next week? He just knew he was losing himself. He was brought up, clean and polite. Then suddenly, he had the same rags for weeks on end, just a cage that was cleaned every week, he was treated like an – no, WORSE than an animal. The animals were cleaned out more often and got brushed and washed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had some water to rub on his filthy skin, his hair was a ragged mess. For god's sake, he didn't even have a chamber pot! His cage began to steadily stink, until by the end of the week, he could hardly breathe.

And that was only one part of it, he wasn't even allowed to be human, he was always referred to as 'The Devil's child' and nobody asked for his real name. And the crowds were even worse on the six-year-old. They laughed and leered at the deformity Erik tried desperately to hide from them, until the gypsy that had taken him in the first place, came in. With the whip Erik feared above all else, he now had permanent scars, and not only on his back. He was hit on his legs, arms, chest, face even. Although, that could hardly look much worse. Erik learned to fear him above all others. He tried to shy away from the whip that came down as the people laughed at the small child, with tears streaming down his face.

The day was just like all the others, he was woken up with the sun, with a piece of stale bread, and a bit of water. Erik knew he had to save this, it would be his food until the sun went down again. He ate a bit of the bread, and took a sip of water, using all his will not to gulp it down, for they hadn't given him any water the night before, as he had scared away several audience members because he had refused to show them his face. That had caused an hour with the whip after sun-down and no food. Erik only had one output, a small monkey someone had thrown at him, his only friend in the evil crowds of people. As the whip would come down, and the bag was ripped off his head, he would close his eyes and clutch the monkey, the sounds ripping through him.

The fair would open, and the main gypsy would lead the first crowds through the attractions, there would be about 50 people per group, and Erik would hear them come slowly closer, clutching the bag over his head. Not today, please. He couldn't take any more laughing and leering. The sounds ripped through him, making him feel like there was nothing left. All he had was himself. The crowds entered the tent, and looked at him curiously. Erik heard the gypsy announce the 'devil's child'. The crowds tried to see how the small carcass was a child of the devil. It seemed that it was just a small boy. The gypsy sighed at Erik, unlocked the cage. Erik shied away from him, clutching his monkey and the bag on his head. The gypsy wielded the whip, and brought it down on the child, until he went limp and let go of the bag. Then he grabbed the monkey and lifted the bag off his head. Then the crowds went wild. They leered and laughed, Erik felt the tears spill over, he looked desperately into the crowds, and saw a face he knew. But it couldn't be her, he thought he saw her every few weeks. He'd just decided it was another face, that looked similar. He was just hoping his mother would help him out. And if it really was her, she would help. Wouldn't she?

He would then decide that there was no-one there that cared, and would grip his monkey and pull the bag over his head again, as the small coins made their way into the cage. They were little drops of hell for him. He would clutch his monkey, and crawl into a corner, and wait for the bleeding to stop. He would then eat another little bit of the bread and take another sip of water, and listen to the crowds moving away. He would wish that it was a bad day, and there was only one crowd, but he soon heard the shout of the gypsy introducing the other people. Not that they were treated like people, but between them, they pitied the others. Even if Erik _was_ the one who was whipped the most often and given the least amount of food, he knew the others were also living in the same hell as he was. He remembered his father claiming he would go to hell. Well, it can't be any worse than this place, Erik would think as the next group of people would come in, and the gypsy would begin to open the cage, but Erik couldn't stand another beating, so he squeezed his eyes closed, hummed a sad tune and pulled the bag off his own head, he would re-open his eyes, and hope to see one set of eyes, sad, pitying? Why did he bother, there never was any. The gypsy trainer would still come up to him, and pull him to his feet.

"The Devil's Child!" he would announce, and the crowds would laugh. Erik knew he was supposed to growl at the crowds, and act like a devil. He felt the whip lash into his back again, in his mind, and bared his teeth. The tears leaked out as he growled, and the crowds almost emptied their pockets. Then the gypsy would drop him, and Erik would pull the bag over his head again, and clasp his monkey to his chest, willing someone to get him out of there. He looked in anger towards his jailer as he grabbed the coins from the floor, turned and looked at him, kicked him in the ribs, and left. Erik would then hope that was it for the day, it usually was. Then he would eat the last bite of bread, and drink the last sip. He would sit, with his back to the bars and hum a lonely tune to himself and wait for the tears to stop, and the jailer to come back and give him something to eat.

He would eat the small morsels, and hope not to have a beating that day. He would try to make the water last as long as possible, but it wouldn't last long as he gulped it down. He would feel the whip cut the weak flesh on his back and legs, as he lay on the floor, trying not to give him the satisfaction of yelling. He would then retreat to the middle of the cage, grasp his monkey and close his eyes. He would whisper to himself.

"Erik. Erik. Erik. Erik. Erik." He would tell himself, trying not to lose who he really was. He would then hum to himself, a sad lullaby, and would slowly fall asleep, usually shivering as the night was cold and he had only a thin rag, to cover part of his legs. He would miss the eyes watching him sleep, someone who regretted giving in to their husband. Someone who's son was taken away, and the other one was growing a lot faster and stronger than Erik. She would then turn away and go back home. She could come to see Erik once a month, when her husband would take Henri to a horse-riding class outside Paris, and they would stay there the whole day and the night. Henri rode more often than that, but he had a major lesson for the whole day every month. She hated doing this behind her husband's back, but she had been curious how Erik was faring and when she found out the gypsy fair was nearby, she visited.

She was thoroughly shocked by her young son. He would try not to give in to the gypsy and would try to hide his face, and she always felt ill when she saw the whip break the skin on his scarred back. She would try to stop the tears when his eyes looked pleadingly into the crowd, then he would meet her eyes, and shake his head. The tears would fall from his eyes, and she thought her heart would break as he clutched the filthy monkey to him and pulled the dirty bag with a couple of eye holes in it over his head. She would be lead out of there and wouldn't see the other attractions, thinking about those pleading eyes. She would climb into her carriage in tears and go back to her empty house, wishing she hadn't been so weak.

This happened every month for Erik's mother for several years. The gypsy 'fair' then arrived back in town, and it was close to when she would go and visit the poor child. Henri found out from one of his friends at school there was a 'really cool fair thing' in town. Well, of course he _had_ to go. He was 11 years old now, which would make Erik 12. He had been living in the hell of the gypsy fair for six years. Half of his life was living in the torture of that place, and he had grown, but not as much as would be usual for someone his age. He could be passed off as a 9year old. Henri had no idea, of course, that his older brother would be at the fair he begged his parents to let him go to.

Henri's father was annoyed and frustrated that the fair was back in town, for of course his son would know about it, he knew almost everything that was going on in Paris almost all the time. He was popular in school, with good brains and lots of friends, his father was extremely proud of him. He knew Erik would still be in the fair, they wouldn't have sold him. Would they? He could hope, because if they didn't take Henri, he would find a way to go anyway, or his friends would tell him about it. So they couldn't hide it from him. He still remembered Erik, and was over the moon when he found out Erik wasn't going to be coming back from the fair.

Henri's mother also knew they would have to take Henri to the fair, and he would see poor Erik, she wondered what her husband would say when he saw him. After all, it was _his_ fault Erik was living in that, that _hell_. For that's what it was. That's where he was forced to live. She looked to her husband, who agreed with their son. They would go to that fair.

Henri looked at the different 'attractions'. He grinned at the poor people, he laughed at some, "Look at that!" He would say. His father would smile, and look shocked at some of the people. He would throw money into the cages, smirking at the beatings. Then they reached Erik's cage.

Henri forced his way forwards, to see in the cage. He heard the name 'devil's child'. What could that mean? He wondered what was wrong with the skinny child inside the cage, who looked younger than him. He saw the monkey toy, and the fear in the boy's eyes as the gypsy forced his way into the cage, Henri frowned as the whip ripped the skin on the scarred boy's back and legs. The bag was pulled from his head, and Henri gasped. He looked down into the face of his big brother, horrified. He saw the misery in his eyes, and saw him look directly at him, frown and saw his eyes widen in recognition. Henri saw his eyes scan the crowd and settle on something, he looked back. He saw his mother, her face covered in tears as she looked at Erik. He saw his father, shocked. Henri looked back at Erik, to see his eyes fill with tears, as the leering and laughing of the crowds was finally recognised. He saw him pull the mask back over his head and retreat from the cage, to the corner. Henri backed out of the tent. Was this his fault? He had said he wanted Erik gone. He looked into the rest of the cages, seeing the people, their eyes sad, their postures drooping. Henri suddenly felt a surge of anger towards the gypsies who ran this place.

Erik recognised Henri in the crowds, and looked around. Sure enough, there was his mother, her eyes spilling with tears. His father not laughing like the rest, and Henri, no longer the five-year old he remembered. Where did his life go? How could he live like this. Erik decided he had to get out of there. But he didn't have a chance right now, he would get the whip later, and sleep. But he would have to get out of there, Erik. Erik. Erik... He couldn't lose himself. Erik. Erik. Erik...

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**poor Erik :( --- press the green button, and review... you know you want to... **


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Henri left the fair in a daze. He couldn't believe what he had just seen. Sure, he had hated Erik when they were younger, but being away from his brother for so long – and not being constantly told how evil he was – had numbed his feelings. Then seeing him, weak and helpless – with no life to envy, Henri didn't know what to think. When he had realised his surroundings once again, Henri took a look to see how his parents were reacting to the shock. His mother sat there, probably similar to how he had looked – with silent tears littering her face. His father had set his jaw and his eyes were steely as he looked out at the world passing by the window.

When the carriage came to a stop, Henri bounded out and went into the house. As he walked through the familiar corridors, many memories flashed through his mind. _They were young, and Henri stood over his cowering brother, an evil laugh protruding from his mouth. His father stood to the right of him, the whip coming down hard on the so-called devil. XXXXX. Henri was being complimented on completing his first year of school and asked if there was anything he wanted, deeply. He thought about it for a minute and came up with a idea. He informed his father he wanted Erik gone, he didn't like him. XXXXX. Henri looked down on the brother he hadn't seen for so long, clutching a toy monkey to his chest. The harsh whip broke the scarred skin on his back and tears came to the pleading eyes that came to rest on his._

It was _his_ fault. If Henri hadn't been so selfish and hateful, Erik would still be living with them. Henri turned away in disgust. He was just as bad as those gypsies that whipped the child. Henri kicked his bed, and sat down. He was a big boy – he wasn't going to cry. He managed to keep the tears at bay. He went downstairs for a silent dinner, then retreated to his bedroom again, where he slept badly, seeing Erik constantly tortured in his mind's eye.

Henri dragged himself out of bed the following morning – he had to go to school. He met up with his friends with a meagre 'hi.' He hadn't slept well, and still had lots going through his head. He barely listened to the conversation, until the word 'fair' came up. His head snapped up, suddenly attentive to what they were saying.

"Yeah, it was awesome. I went to the early viewing on Saturday." He heard. "So funny." Henri's eyes blazed. The others agreed with the speaker.

"I think I saw you there. Did you see the freak with one arm?" they spoke excitedly, unaware of the inferno rising inside Henri.

"Oh, my favourite was that – _thing_. You know, the 'devil's child'." They laughed.

"Did you see his face?"

"Hideous!"

"Wish I had more than just rocks."

"I chucked a couple of coins at him."

Henri snapped.

"You think they're the freaks?! You're the freaks – talking about those people in that way!" His eyes blazed, and his friends took a step back from the raging boy. "What did they do to you? They're forced to be paraded in front of you, whipped brutally. Did you _see_ hoe skinny E – The Devil's Child was?" He stormed. "They hated the way they were treated, how would you like it if you were born like that, and forced to endure the laughs, and the stones? Did it not occur to you, that the man with one arm may have had it cut off, for your entertainment?" he stood, his hands curled into fists, his stance showing he was dangerous. His friends looked at him in shock.

"Henri, mate." One of them moved forwards. Henri's furious gaze turned on him, and he flinched back. "What did-?"

"_WHAT DID YOU DO?_" Henri roared, "_YOU THREW ROCKS AT HIM! LAUGHED AT HIM! How old do you think he is? How long do you think he's had to do that? Stay in the cage? HAVE ROCKS THROWN AT HIM?_"

"Henri, why are you so worked up about it? It was just a bit of fun!" Exclaimed one of his friends. Why was he worked up? Well, because Erik was his _brother_! But he couldn't tell them. He lowered his eyes, his temper leaving him.

"I can't say. But the way He – _they_ were treated was sick. I can't believe you actually _enjoyed_ watching it." His friends looked at their feet in embarrassment. He was right of course. They were obviously curious as to why he had reacted like that, but they had never seen Henri lose his temper so badly before, and were worried to provoke him – they didn't know how to react to this.

"Sorry." One of them said, "I never thought of it. I _may_ have been a bit cruel." The others all agreed with him – he probably had the right idea. Henri's eyes softened. To be truthful, he was a bit startled with himself, he couldn't remember losing his temper so badly before, especially not to his friends.

Henri went quiet after that and was primarily ignored by his friends. He thought about what he'd seen, and did the maths. Erik had been trapped in the cage for almost 7 years. Well, it was about time he got out! That was quite long enough to live in hell. Henri decided he had to go back to the gypsy fair. He would see Erik, and do what he could to save his older brother. If he could take him back home, then – well then he'd see what would happen. But he would go back to go back – and his parents couldn't know where he was going. So Henri hatched a plan. He had money – enough to go to the fair and have plenty left over. So Henri broke into his savings – he wouldn't even know it was gone!

Then, Henri told his parents he was going to his friend's – he had even forged an invitation. So he stayed behind after school, not leaving with his friends. He stopped a carriage and assured the driver he had money enough for the journey. The journey took a while, Henri seeing the passing landmarks; the church, the schools, the opera house. Henri saw the fair coming from quite a distance away, and narrowed his eyes at the head gypsy. He stopped outside the entrance, paid the carriage, and paid the gypsy for the tour. He felt sick, looking into the bastard's face.

They showed them around, a group of young ballerinas getting under his feet. They were quite sweet really, about his age. He looked at the people in the cages, horrified at the leers and shouts. He looked towards the tent that Erik hid in.

Finally, they were led into the tent. The boy was announced – once again – as the devil's child. Henri felt it a personal insult that they seemed to refer to his mother as the devil – for that's who's child it was really. He stayed in the corner, watching his brother from a distance. It was much the same as before, the weapon this time being a cane. It came down, again, and the bog was ripped off. Henri's eyes flashed in hate as he looked at his brother's captor. He had to do something! All too soon, the crowd was disappearing, and with it, his chance.

Henri saw Erik's eyes flash with a hate similar to the one he felt in his own – but deeper. The final ballerina turned towards the exit - where Henri stood. He saw Erik untie a rope from the bars as his captor picked coins up off the floor. Henri saw the ballerina whip round at the sound of the rope. He watched, shocked, as Erik pulled the gypsy against the bars – fuelled by his hate – and choke the life out of him. A part of him was whooping at the attack, and he yearned to help as the man breathed no more. Henri made to move, as Erik stood – astounded by what he had done – but the young ballerina got there first. She unlocked the cage and grabbed Erik's hand, as Henri heard the gypsies coming. When they ran, Henri followed behind.

He hid as they fled to the opera house, and saw the girl open a passageway he wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't. He saw Erik vanish from sight, and saw the girl close the passage entrance and go to the doors. He leapt out from the shadows and grabbed her arm. She jumped and whipped around, her eyes wild.

"Shh." He begged her, "What are you going to do with him?" He asked, anxiously.

"I am unsure, monsieur. I think I will take him underground for now." She looked at him anxiously. "You won't tell, will you?"

"No." He assured her. "I wish him well, thank you for helping him. Look after him, please." She nodded, and Henri ran off. Erik was safe for now, and he had to get back home. Henri found a carriage and left for home.

To say Erik was shocked would be an understatement. He knew he couldn't take it anymore when he felt the cane come down on him hard. He saw red, and even found a pair of sympathetic eyes looking at him. He killed his captor, and stood – he would be killed for sure now. His eyes met the pair by the exit – Henri! What was he doing? He looked shocked too, but there was something else – his mouth curved up into a small, satisfied smile. Then he saw what the girl was doing, and grabbed her outstretched hand – freedom! As they ran, Erik sensed someone watching him. He feared it was one of the gypsies, and ran faster. He couldn't believe – after all that time, he was out of the cage he'd come to think of as hell. Away from the cruel whip that caused the criss-crossing scars that would last until he died and longer.

He panicked, a couldn't go back there! He'd rather go back to the place where his brother had laughed whilst his father whipped him – at least he'd had enough to eat. When they came to a stop, and the ballerina bent down to open the entrance to the alleyway, Erik stood stock still. He hated this feeling of hopelessness. He swore to himself, he would never feel like that again, from now on, he would be in charge. He would do things _his_ way. The gate swung outwards, and Erik fled from the outside world. The ballerina wouldn't know how long this would last, Erik was scarred for life, and not only externally. He would stay in the darkness far too long.

Erik stood in the small chamber – not knowing which exit to choose. The ballerina came round the corner and took his hand once more. Erik was led down countless tunnels, the ballerina checking at each junction for the strip of chalk contrasting with the dark walls. The air became increasingly musty as they descended, and Erik found himself out of breath. They slowed to a walk as Erik lost track of the floor they were on. The girl began to natter, and Erik also found the silence pressing. But he also found it comforting – and the gloom too. He felt more comfortable here than he had anywhere else.

"Um. My name's Antoinette." The girl told him, and Erik stowed the information away in his mind. "What's yours?" Erik froze. He knew his name – he had told himself it every night for the last few years. He had never been able to trust anyone enough for it before, really, no one had asked. But he could do this one thing for his saviour.

"Erik." He said softly, his voice weak from lack of use. She nodded and smiled at him. Erik tried to smile back, but only managed a sort of awkward grimace. Antoinette's smile faltered and her eyes filled with pity. Erik didn't want pity – he wasn't a charity case. But, he didn't want to drive his saviour away – he had been alone too long. They came to a stop, in a dark circular place, there were a couple of benches round the edge, they didn't look very comfortable. The girl – Antoinette – turned to Erik.

"I must return, Erik. " She said. "Before I'm missed too much. I will return after we go to bed – I will bring you some food." Erik looked at her, he would be alone again. "I'm sorry, Erik." Came her voice as she ran away. "I will return!" And Erik was left alone, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness. He looked back the way Antoinette had left, then slumped down on the hard bench – made of rock – to await her return.

Antoinette ran up the corridors, following the white chalk marks on the walls, praying the ballet mistress hadn't noticed she was missing yet. She ran up to the dormitories, and flung the door open, out of breath. The ballet mistress span round and glared at her, her eyes icy. Antoinette cowered, blushed and lowered her eyes to the floor. The other girls looked at her sympathetically – nobody liked to get on Madame Carlisle's bad side.

"Where have you been, young lady?" asked the lady, in a shrill voice. "I commanded you all to stick together! You don't know what you'll find at a place like that" She looked around at them. "Or what'll find you." The girls shuddered at the implications of those words. The mistress turned back to Antoinette, who was still looking at her feet. "So?" prompted the mistress.

"I was looking at one of the creatures, and I didn't notice that everyone had gone. I went after them, but I couldn't see anyone. So I ran back here as fast as I could because I missed the carriage. I really sorry." Antoinette wasn't really a liar, but she was worried about Erik. She was unsure as to whether he would be accepted. Besides, it could be fun to have a secret. She stood, her head bowed, secretly praying inside her head. The short pause seemed to last a lifetime, until...

"Well, make sure you always have someone with you." She looked at the others. "Never leave someone behind – it's dangerous!" The girls looked embarrassed and nodded. The ballet mistress intimidated them all.

Antoinette waited until her friends were all fast asleep, before creeping out of bed. It was late, and nobody was up. Antoinette had saved some of her supper in a paper towel, and took the food – cold chicken – down to the cellars with her. She found the entrance and crept down the stairs, going steadily lower. When she saw the first white mark, she broke into a jog, then a run as she went deeper into the catacombs. She was panting heavily as she reached the area where she had left Erik earlier, and stopped, bending over and placing her hands on her knees. Eventually, she straightened up and glanced around the small area. She saw Erik, sitting on one of the benched, with his back against the wall, his head – inside the bag – lolling. He was asleep. Antoinette went up to him slowly, and tapped his knee. He awoke immediately and shied away from her, his eyes wide.

"Erik." She tried to assure the terrified child, "Shh, don't worry. It's me." He recognised her, and nodded slowly. "I brought you some food." She pulled the tissue from her pocket, and offered it to him. He opened it and stared at the meat inside it. Slowly, his eyes flicking up and down, he brought the cold meat to his mouth. He ate it , disbelievingly – he hadn't had meat since he was about six! Then he quickly ravished the rest of the food, as if her were frightened it would go away. Antoinette handed him a bottle of water, which he grabbed and held to him after only a small amount. Antoinette smiled at him and turned to leave, before a small voice called at her from behind.

"Merci, Mademoiselle." He said and she turned back to him and smiled.

"Call me Antoinette." She told him, and left him in the dark.

And so Erik's new life began.

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**Hi. Sorry it took so long, I've been away.**

**You know the drill, please, please, PLEASE review. I have hardly any and I want to know how I'm doing... Please?  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi. I noticed I forgot to put a disclaimed in, so:**

**I DONT OWN ANY OF THIS, AND THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT... no matter how much I wish...**

anyway, enjoy my work :)

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**Chapter 5**

Erik spent the night sitting on the uncomfortable bench thinking his way round the situation he was in. Even though he hadn't been to a school or had any sort of education for six years, his mind was extremely sharp and he had a lot of common sense, he could think his way round a lot of problems. So he sat up, in the darkness and went over what had happened over the last few hours. He was out of the cage, away from the whip and he was convinced he would never be on the receiving end of one again. He would do everything in his power to make that true. He hatched a plan, he would be safe here, away from people who would laugh – no compassion in their eyes. The world was a cruel place, and this little boy was convinced he had no place in it.

The next day, Erik followed the chalk marks up to the surface – he couldn't count on Antoinette coming down to him. He made his way through the passageways, and found the entrance to the cellars. He slowly crept through them, into the opera house above. He heard the rehearsals going on in the distance, and stayed in the shadows and doorways through the corridors. He passed an empty room and made his way in, half-listening to the lessons going on next door. He looked in a couple of drawers and pulled out a piece of chalk and a sheet of paper with writing on. He shook his head at the paper and put it back – he would have to re-learn how to read, it had been a long time. He pocketed the chalk and froze as he heard footsteps reaching the room. He backed against the wall – worried what would happen if he was found.

As his back hit the wall, there was nowhere to go. He looked around for a way out, and scrabbled with the wall. His mind went into panic mode when the footsteps reached the doorway, and Erik pressed against a hidden trigger in the wall, and a secret panel opened up. Erik darted inside, thankfully, and pressed on the wall on the other side. He closed the panel just in time, and looked back where he had come through. There was a viewing spot, so Erik stood on his tiptoes and looked through the window-like thing that was invisible on the other side. He saw the man walk in, open a drawer and take out the sheet of paper he had just left behind. Erik stared in wonder at the panel. He wondered how many of these there were over the building.

Erik re-opened the panel and looked around. He made a mental note of the place you press on to open it and slide it closed, and edged his way out of the room. He looked around and heard shouting in the distance. Apparently rehearsals weren't going so well. He grinned to himself, and went in the opposite direction. He looked around at every turn, and marvelled at the size of the building. He noted every turn and change in direction in his mind.

After a couple of minutes wandering through the opulent halls, Erik found the place he had been looking for. He crept in through the door, making no noise, and looked around the large room. The smells were overwhelming. Erik hadn't eaten anything other than stale bread and water for so long, he had forgotten what all those other foods tasted like. He rummaged around in the kitchens for a while, the cooks had been curious and gone to see what the commotion was onstage. Erik grabbed a couple of morsels, some bread, cheese, he took a knife and sliced a chunk of the ham...

Erik left the room – this time by the door – and made his way back to the cellars, his mind remembering _most_ of the twists and turns in the huge building. He was almost caught at one point, and he ran away from the noise, down the stairs and into the darkness below. He fled down to the third cellar, where it was unlikely to see people this low down (he hoped). He sat down and ate the food he had stolen – hopefully it wouldn't be missed.

After he had eaten, Erik pulled out the chalk he had put in his pocket. It was time to explore the place he would probably call 'home' now. He marked the walls as he went into the labyrinth, saving every twist and turn in his mind. It would take a long time to get used to this place, but he thought, he didn't have anything else to do, and if he was to live here...

After a few hours, Erik's chosen path came out at an underground lake. Erik stood on the edge and looked out, it went on further than he could see. He stood there for a while, his mouth slightly open, at the size of it. How many people knew it was here? Probably none! And it was huge! Erik frowned, there was no way of knowing how deep it was, it could be metres, or centimetres. He didn't know how to swim, so there was no way he was going to check. He turned away, he would find it again – he could use it for all sorts of things, he hadn't bathed for _years_ for one thing. But a couple more days wouldn't make any difference. He would have to go back.

In one of the top cellars, Erik found several boxes of costumes, of course most of them were made for people quite a bit older and taller than him, so they didn't really fit. He found a pair of scissors in another box, and a needle and thread. He stared at them. How was he going to do that? He shook his head, he would sort that out another day. Then there was the problem of his face. He would have to cover it, but the bag was itchy and he _really _didn't like it very much. He rooted through another few bags, and found a small box of masks. _Perfect._ He pulled out a small black one, and pulled the bag off his head. He then placed the mask on – it _almost_ fit.

A couple of boxes later, Erik found a mirror. He looked at himself. He had changed a lot since he had last looked at his reflection. He _really_ needed a hair-cut. His mask was passable, he would have to make his own – one that would fit his face comfortably. He looked round the cellar, there were several boxes, and some props. He pulled out something that could represent a bed – it wasn't very comfortable. He found several mirrors, but he didn't really relish in looking at his reflection. He pulled one full-length mirror down a long tunnel, marked with chalk, and down several floors. He was exhausted by the time he reached the underground lake. He propped the mirror against a wall, and sat on the floor, panting. This would take a while.

Over the next few days, Erik managed to adjust some clothing in the boxes and take them down to the lake – it would be useful to have it nearby. He watched Antoinette's classes, and some other classes that took place in the opera house. His fast mind learned fast, his knowledge of reading and writing came back to him in a couple of weeks. Antoinette visited often, but she realised she couldn't _really_ help Erik as much as she would have wished and Erik learned to fend for himself. He took a few bars of soap from the bathrooms and a handful of towels that caused an argument about where they had gone. He took all this down to the lake and began to work on his personal appearance.

First, he washed in the cold lake. He had years of grime and dirt on his skin, and stayed in the freezing water as long as he could stand. He pulled on a clean set of clothing he had altered and used the mirror to cut his hair using a pair of scissors. He didn't enjoy looking at his face, but he couldn't do the job properly with the mask in the way, so he set it aside and looked at himself for the first time in years.

It was worse than he remembered it, he was sure. Just looking at it made him feel ill. No wonder he was treated like that – he didn't blame them, but that didn't mean he regretted what he did. He hated those men, to the bottom of his soul. The soul, his mother would say was damaged now, if it really was whole before. He was a killer, a murderer. And he didn't care. He looked at his reflection for a while, his mind torturing himself. He then tried his best to ignore it as he attacked his hair with the scissors.

He left it slightly longer than most people would have theirs, because of the thinness on the right side. He looked at it for a while, the right and left side didn't really work – the left side was thicker, and didn't really fit in. He didn't like the difference. There was nothing he could do though, he told himself he would go looking for a wig, and placed the mask back on his face. He stood up, as tall as he could (which wasn't really _that_ tall, because his growth had been stunted slightly), and looked at himself critically. He could truthfully say it felt nice to be wearing something clean, and to feel clean – if slightly cold – and his hair wasn't long and out of control any more. He looked – normal? An average boy, wearing a mask. If he didn't know about the nasty distortion that lay under the mask, he could trick himself he was a normal child.

When Antoinette saw him – she had been too busy to visit for the last couple of days – she stood and stared. He looked so different. She was startled by the presence he gave, the mask looked mysterious, and Antoinette wouldn't have believed it was the same child as the one she had pulled out of a cage, just a week before. She smiled at his shy expression and persuaded him that he looked good. He smiled shyly, and looked at the floor.

Erik worked for a while on creating a boat. It would have to hold his weight, and he wanted to be able to see what was across the lake. He worked on it for hours, pausing to go up and listen to the classroom lessons and watch some of the rehearsals. He loved listening to some of the music flowing out of the instruments and people. Often, he lost himself in the music, letting it flow over him, and losing track of time. It wasn't long before he found himself humming his own little tunes, and sub-consciously creating his own composures in his mind.

Erik paid close attention to the music lessons, learning about the notes and how to write music. He took several sheets of paper, a quill and ink pot, and began releasing his music onto the paper. Oh, how he longed to play. He would at night, go up to the band pit, and sit on the piano stool, but could not bring himself to play. He didn't know how for one thing, and was afraid of people turning up. He fingered the keys, not pressing them down. First an 'A', then two 'C's and a 'major G chord' in the left hand, never making a noise. He heard the notes in his head, weaving together, creating a lilting melody, that spoke of a new life, and a small worry, and an unspoken wish... He bowed his head, and left the large instrument he longed to tame, behind him as he made his way into the ever more familiar catacombs beneath the opera house. He would buy one... A piano, he would play it where he would be undisturbed... He would need money – How? Maybe there was another way?

Erik spoke to Antoinette about getting a piano, any instrument. She told him they cost lots of money, and there were few places nearby that would sell them to a child. She asked him if he had any money, and Erik just looked at her – of course he didn't have any money! Surely she, of all people, knew that? Then he would have to MAKE money... But how? He was in an Opera house, where there was plenty of paid employment, but he could not go out, and he was only a child. They would not pay a child... Unless... He could MAKE them pay him – and he would give something back in return, didn't he already fix scenery that went unnoticed backstage? Add a couple of notes to the ideas for the backgrounds? He saw how it could all be improved – he was confused how other people didn't! And so, Erik made his way underground, to the lake where the boat stood on the shore, nearing completion. He would cross it soon. But for now, he would write a note.

_Mousier LeFevre,_

_I am writing to inform you of some things that have been going on in this Opera House. You will be interested to know, I am sure, about a few small changes that have been made inside these walls.  
I have been fixing props backstage, and adding to backdrops and scenery to add to the splendour of the shows being put on here. It seems like nobody notices the little things that make a big difference, like a coil of rope I replaced the other week – if t had been left any longer, I fear the backdrop would have fallen on a series of ballerinas – and we wouldn't want any injuries here, would we?_

_I am asking for something for my contributions. Money, to be precise, you will pay me, say –_

Erik thought a bit about an asking price... It would need to be a lot, he _did_ make a lot of difference, and the manager did seem to be rich...

_20,000 francs? Per month? And I am sure you will pay up... At the moment, I wish to tell you my salary is overdue, and it shall need to be paid immediately, after all, we wouldn't want any backdrops falling from frayed ropes?_

Erik wondered how to sign off, he couldn't put his own name, for that would raise questions... He remembered the ballerinas talking about a ghost that haunted the Opera House, what about being a friendly spectre, writing these letters?

_I trust we understand each other? Deliver my money to a young ballerina – Antoinette. I trust it will all be there._

_Opera Ghost_

Erik smiled at the last two words, and rushed off to deposit his note to the old manager, who claimed his son would be taking over the business soon. He hoped they would listen – he _needed_ the money, and it wouldn't harm them to be put down. He wouldn't be the little guy, at the receiving end of the whip any longer. He would be the master. He grinned to himself, he hoped he didn't have to _persuade_ them...

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Ooh Erik's getting naughty, maybe the darkness has gotten to his head... Anyways, _please_ Review, it makes me feel so happy :)

Let me know, good or bad? What can I go to improve it? Where can I go from here????


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank You, everyone who has read, and is reading this. **

**Thank You, all that have left Reviews, I cherish them, and take into consideration all you say :)**

**Sorry it's quite short, but please, Enjoy :)  
**

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**Chapter 6**

Erik's note was met with laughter, the whole cast and crew was called up onto the stage, and the manager asked who it was that was stupid enough to write a note asking for money. The cast looked at each other, sniggering at the idea. Their manager wasn't about to give out money to a mysterious person calling himself a ghost – what did ghosts have need of money for anyway? Erik sat in the rafters seething at the sound of their laughter. Then Mousier LeFevre asked Antoinette to come up to the front. Her name was referenced in the letter, so she must have _something_ to do with it.

"Antoinette." He started, waving the note in front of her face, "What is this all about?" She looked at the letter, confusion all over her face.

"I do not know Mousier, I had no knowledge of the note being written or who wrote it. I assume it is some sort of trick? I am sorry. I cannot help you." Antoinette said all this, with her eyes trained on her feet, feeling like she was being scolded. _What was he up to? He was supposed to hide! Did he really expect the managers to obey his wishes? 20,000 Francs? That's ridiculous! Not even the diva makes that much in a month! He was pushing it. I knew he wanted an organ, and money – is there no other way? He would let the whole Opera house know about his presence. He is probably nearby now, and this laughter will _not_ be helping his self-esteem. _She groaned inwardly. Why did he have to drag her into it too? Mousier LeFevre dismissed her seeing she wouldn't say anything – either she was a really good actress, or she really didn't know what was going on.

LeFevre looked around at them all,

"This is really a huge waste of time, and I will not tolerate receiving one of these again, I will find out who the culprit is if my time is wasted again, and let me tell you now, you will be punished – I will _not_ let this rubbish go on!" He looked around one more time, and strode off, leaving the cast and crew to wonder what on Earth had just happened.

*****

Erik saw LeFevre stride off and followed him, his anger barely held in check. He may be a child, just 12 years old, but he had seen more than most men, during his time with the gypsies, evil men – with evil minds. He did not wish to be like them, but he _would_ get his own way. He followed in the shadows and watched as LeFevre walked into his office to read the rest of his letters. Erik twisted a knob behind a painting and a passage opened in the wall, he entered it, and closed it behind him. He knew his way round the secrets in the Opera House now. He then went round to the place that held the office behind the little peep hole in the wall...

"Excuse me, mousier, but I believe I asked you for something." He stated, in a loud voice, trying his best to be scary. LeFevre looked around in alarm.

"What? Where – Where are you speaking from?" He asked, his eyes wide, and his voice laced with worry. Erik grinned at the man through the peep hole – this was so much fun!

"I speak from everywhere." Erik replied, feeling quite impressed with his answer. "After all, I am not bound by creatures of this Earth." He made his voice as threatening as possible, "You ignore my note?" LeFevre was still trying to see where the voice was coming from, when he paused.

"Your note?" he asked, looking at the paper in his fist, "_You_ wrote this?" he snorted, "Opera Ghost? Really? What does a ghost have need of money for? If you really _are_ a ghost." He seemed to believe that now, not recognising the disembodied voice that spoke to him from everywhere and nowhere. "What are you doing here?" He asked after a while of no reply, his heart beginning to pump faster and the anxious feeling in his chest rising. "_What do you want?_" He began to panic, whirling round, looking at the walls, his eyes flashing side to side – Where was the voice coming from? What was going on? Why him? Had it gone? Was it right behind him?

Erik answered, and the voice sounded like it was right next to him, Erik was skilled in the art of throwing his voice, one of the gypsies had taught him. LeFevre panicked, and listened to the voice talking to him.

"I think you'll find, _mousier, _that I explained things rather well in that note I sent you. I expect I will receive my pay on time, the 1st of the month... _Every_ month." The voice lowered to a whisper in his ear, and LeFevre could swear he felt the breath on his face, "_Are we understood_?" LeFevre jumped back, nodding his head rapidly, and Erik grinned at the sight before him. "Good."

And with that, Erik left that passage and retreated to the cellars, the edge of the lake, where the boat he had worked on for so long was waiting for him. He ran down the familiar passageways, his stamina a lot higher that it had been just weeks before – that's what came of travelling this dark labyrinth day and night, his speedy feet pounding the rock he ran on. He learned to control his breathing, and to pass by almost silently – except for the slight sounds you would hear as he sped past.

He reached the lake in record time, not getting lost once, his conversation with the manager leaving him feeling strong and in control for the first time in his life. He would cross the lake today, and find out what seemed to be calling to him from the other side. A part of him seemed to know what was there, and was keeping it from the other parts of him. It seemed like he _should_ go there. It felt _right_. He wouldn't be able to explain it really, if you had asked him.

Erik reached the boat he had fashioned, and he pushed it into the water for the first time. He smiled, properly, at the sight of it bobbing on the still water – it _worked_! He climbed in, waiting to regain his balance as he grabbed the long pole, and pushed off from the edge. It was a tough task, and he had a lot of things to think about, all at the same time, as he poled himself across the lake. He stood at the front, trying desperately to keep his balance, and it was _unbelievably_ hard work propelling the boat along with the pole. It was heavy, and a struggle to pull the pole out every time he placed it in front of him. He was knackered by the time he spied the other end of the water.

He poled the boat right to the edge, until it crunched in the gravel under the water. Erik leapt out of the boat, and dragged it up a bit, not really worried it would drift – there was no wind. He turned his eyes to the scene before him.

It was blank rock, there was nothing placed on it, or around it, but it seemed _perfect_. The rock was cut out, like a sort of stage, with several caves off in several directions. The caves weren't huge, but sort of room-sized. The main section was large, with space to put lots of different items. Some of the small nooks would do to place items in, imagine the walls lined with mirrors, a red curtain _here_, a few candles _there_. Without really planning it, Erik found himself designing his own home in his mind. He pictured the different rooms, what would adorn them, and where all the items he 'owned' would live.

When Erik realised what he was planning, a large grin spread across his face. It was _brilliant_! Almost like this place was designed for him to live there. And it would be almost inaccessible, because of the lake – he would not be disturbed. He could not be spied on, he could do whatever he planned here, and nobody would be able to get here without his knowledge.

He would begin moving his belongings here immediately. It would be a place he could be alone. A place, could it be true? A place he can call...

Home.

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_**Please**_** Review. You know you want to... (And I want you to...)**

**Thanks**

**Oreal  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**I OWN NOTHING (i gotta remember to put this in)**

**Another chap, a bit sooner than usual, pay me back and review, please :)  
**

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**Chapter 7**

_Cowering on the floor, a man stood over him, taller than he remembered. The arm rose – torturously slowly, the large man knowing how scared the small boy was. An evil grin adorned his face as the whip came down. Erik rose his head from under the blows, the crowd was closer than usual, faces everywhere. Their faces pulled into smiles, their laughter roaring in his ears, echoing. He was yelling, but was unaware. The noise was so loud. And the door was open! Erik ran, and suddenly he was in the labyrinth, but in the darkness on both sides, lots of faces, pulled into horrific grins. Antoinette stood in front of him, but suddenly turned to face him, and her face was an evil mask – worse than the others. Her voice echoed in his mind as she introduced 'Erik – The Devil's Child' And she pointed at his face, the crowds pushed closer. Closer. The laughter so loud he couldn't hear himself think. Never stopping. Erik curled into a ball in the corner, but the laughing faces were engraved on his eyelids, and the laughter just sounded louder with his hands over his ears. He scratched at the face that was the source of the laughing, the pointing. Always laughing. Laughing. Laughing._

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" The yell ripped through the quiet cellars. The boy lay on the floor, tangled in sheets, his mask lying by the side, blood streaming from the cuts created by his own finger nails.

"STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!" Another scream came from the mouth of the sleeping child. Nobody to hear the heartbroken yells from the 12-year-old.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" This time there were no words, and Erik awoke towards the end of the ear-splitting yell, and it faded into quiet sobs that wracked the mutilated body of the child known as the 'Opera Ghost'. He curled into a ball, under the quilts, and cried until there were no more tears. He could still see the laughing faces from all round, hear the laughing resounding in his head.

Erik awoke in this state almost every morning, the nightmares getting more and more vivid. There was nothing he could do to stop them, and began to fear sleeping. He was used to sleeping little, the gypsies keeping him up with whips and yells, and the shows went on late. He was then woken at daybreak by the birds, and they were usually moving on somewhere else too. The gypsies took turns, some doing morning shifts, others night. So they wouldn't get too tired. But Erik didn't count, and after 6 years, he was used to it, and never slept well in the Opera House, from the nightmares that had started shortly after he'd arrived. Antoinette didn't know, and Erik kept his wounds hidden from her, he usually drew blood in his sleep.

After Erik calmed down, and the visions from his nightmare faded in the dark, he crawled out from under the blankets, and went out into the place he had begun to think of as home. He lit several candles, and braced himself for the sight he would meet when glancing in the mirror. He winced at the right side of his face, the deformity looking even worse in the low, flickering light of the candles, and the blood covering parts of it looked decisively evil. He grabbed a bottle of stuff that keeps infection away, and dabbed the stinging liquid onto the wounds. He decided he didn't need bandages, and held a piece of material to the cuts, until the bleeding stopped, and the stinging lessoned to a degree that was bearable. He then turned back to his 'room' and placed the mask back over the sensitive skin. He still had a full-face mask that he had found and altered in the costume box, but was working on another, a half-mask that would only cover his deformity, it would probably be more comfortable, and he would be able to see better if he didn't have both eyes almost covered in a mask that was too big for him... It would be ready soon.

Erik had managed to raise enough money to purchase an Organ, and was planning on getting one soon, he imagined he would go today, after he watched rehearsals, and left his note saying what could be improved. Although Mr. LeFevre didn't want to admit it, the rehearsals were going better with Erik's (or the Opera Ghost's) notes, they pointed things out that wouldn't have been noticed, and he just added them into the pile of notes, pretending that they were written by him. They seemed to make the biggest impact too, and make the most difference.

Erik made his way back up the labyrinth, moving quickly and silently, he had been staying in the Opera House for several months now, and been getting his salary for 4. His sharp intelligence noticed anything wrong within the walls, and he noticed all of the performers, not just the diva and the leading tenor, or the ballet mistress. Everyone played their part, and everyone made a difference – if one of the ballerinas made a mistake, the audience would be drawn to it immediately, and the whole show would go out of the window. Erik was a perfectionist, and he was very skilled in making sure everything was perfect.

Erik enjoyed listening to, and watching the different operas, the music making him forget that his life had been terrible, that he was all alone, and that people hated his presence. He hated the idea that he was less than human, so he did everything in his power to force the rest of him make up for the terrible vision that was his face. He looked at it in the mirror as little as possible, only when tending to wounds or washing. He washed often, every day, for the air was stuffy underground, and with all the walking and running he did, in the dark, he needed to keep himself clean – you pick up a lot of dirt in the day.

Erik watched the rehearsal go on, it was almost the date for the gala, and he wouldn't be able to watch the performance then, because all the seats would be occupied, and the flies would be full of people that worked on the backdrops and things. But there was a special place underground, where he would be able to hear the music – only a few floors down, and there were holes in the tiles, so the sound would travel down. He enjoyed sitting down there by himself, singing quietly along to the operas. Nobody would be able to hear him, because of the volume on stage.

After Erik sat through the rehearsal, and wrote the notes – getting fewer and fewer as the performance improves – he made his way out of the building, and into the garish sunlight of the outside world. Erik had not seen the sun for months, and the brightness caused him to squint, and pull his hood up higher – he could not be recognised, or noticed. He stayed in the shadows, and made his way to the music shop where the musicians got their instruments from. He looked at it from across the street, there was no people in it, and he gulped audibly before making his way into the shop.

The shopkeeper looked up when he walked in, and seemed automatically on his guard, until Erik pulled out his moneybag. He looked around the shop warily, looking rapidly at the shopkeeper, worriedly. He moved silently, and the old man was intrigued by the child who seemed incredibly shy.

"Can I help you?" He asked kindly, and Erik flinched, and looked at him, his visible eye wide, the shopkeeper was slightly confused by this show. Erik looked at him again, and warred silently with himself, should he reply? What should he say? He looked at the floor.

"I would like to... um... purchase an Organ." He said, quietly. He looked up quickly, "I have adequate funds to pay... um..." he looked down again, and the old man smiled at the child.

"Follow me." He said, and edged round the counter and went towards Erik, who flinched again, and edged away from him. He couldn't help it, every time anyone had gone near him, it usually ended with whipping or verbal abuse. He was almost as tall as the man, Erik had grown a lot in the last few months, having more space to grow, and being able to hold himself taller. He also had muscles just about beginning to emerge; he kept himself strong, for he never wanted to feel weak again. But still he shied away from the old man, who had no wish to hurt him. The man looked confused for a second, but recovered – and bade Erik to follow him into the back of the shop. Erik did so, warily.

In the back of the shop, there were lots of grand instruments, that wouldn't fit in the front of the shop. There were a few pianos and organs, several violin cases, a couple of cellos, a harp, two guitars, several clarinets, come flutes, brass instruments, a drum kit and a double bass. Erik looked round, his mouth handing open. The man looked at his awe and smiled, bidding him to choose one of the organs. He edged forwards, and opened the first one's cover. He pressed down a few keys, smiling at the rich noise that echoed round the small room. He closed the cover again, as if it were made of glass, and made his way to the next one. He pulled up the cover, and looked at the sharp colours, the contrast of the black and white. He smiled at the notes, slightly louder, and richer, as they surrounded him. He looked back at the shopkeeper and nodded at him, pointing at the one he had just played. The old man moved forwards, and closed the lid. Erik backed off slightly.

"How much?" he asked in a soft, melodic voice. The man looked him, silently asking him why he was purchasing an Organ at his age. Erik ignored the silent question, and reached for his money.

"How will you move it to your home?" asked the man, still surveying the curious child who's visible eye seemed older than the boy who owned it. Erik looked at the floor for a minute, still hiding his face from the old man.

"May I have it delivered to an area directly outside the Opera De Populaire. On the south side, about 20metres into the alley." He asked, bracing himself for the questions as to that spot. The old man surveyed him for a minute.

"When?" he asked finally, giving in, "If you can assure me it will be safe. It is a work of art." He didn't want the organ to go to waste. Erik looked up quickly, his hood falling from his face, throwing his mask into sight. The man gasped, as Erik started, and grasped at the hood, pulling it back over his face. But the damage was done in his eyes, he looked down, and the old man saw fear and pain in the green eyes that were scarcely visible.

"It will be safe." Erik finally replied after a long period of silence. "I wouldn't damage it." He kept his eyes trained on the ground. "When is it possible to deliver, I would like it soon." The old man studied the boy, who kept his face hidden, and wondered why he wore a mask.

"How does tomorrow sound? I will deliver it personally, would you like a way to transport it? I have a small cart that would do the trick." Erik looked up, and the old man thought he saw a ghost of a smile cross his face.

"Thank you." Came the soft reply. "How much?" He pulled his money out again, and the old man smiled to himself.

"50,000 Francs, including transport." He asked him, expecting the boy to grab the money, and walk sadly away – there was no way a child would manage to get that much. But Erik pulled out the asked money, and placed it on the counter, the old man noticed that he was wearing gloves, although it was not cold out – quite the opposite. He collected the money from the counter, and smiled at him. Erik didn't smile back, but his eyes seemed to soften a bit. He pulled his hood closer to him, and turned away, walking out of the door, and almost seemed to vanish immediately. The old man shook his head in disbelief of the events that had taken place, and took the money away, putting it in a safe. The child intrigued him, especially as he wanted to buy an organ – and the place he wanted it delivered too! Confusing, indeed.

Erik made his way back to the Opera House as fast as he could, he felt embarrassed about the events that had just taken place, he loved the sound the organ had made, but how could be have let his hood fall down? Now the old man would go around telling everyone about him, and he would have people looking for him, a boy with a mask on – not hard to spot, and Antoinette would know it was him immediately. How embarrassing!

He sped through the streets, not seen by anyone, keeping to the shadows as much as he could in the broad daylight. He kept out of the way, his hood up, the sunlight pounding down on him, burning him through the black cape and gloves. He got to the Opera House, and the cool, dark tunnels as fast as he could, and hid again from the world. He breathed a sigh of relief when the passage closed, and he knew he would never feel welcome in the sunlight with the rest of the world, he just didn't fit in. He almost smiled at the idea of having the music to keep him company down here, in the cool darkness of everlasting night. This was where he belonged.

The next day passed with Erik waiting impatiently for the organ to arrive outside one of the entrances, he waited just out of sight for the carriage to appear. It seemed to take an eternity for a minute to pass, and Erik listened intently when he wasn't watching. He hadn't slept the night before, staying up, writing lyrics to a song he was making up, inspired by the feel of freedom in the darkness. The only indication he got that the day had arrived was the clock he had in the corner of the room he had designated to hold the organ.

_For God's sake! I swear this day is longer than any other I've lived through, it's as if time has slowed down!_ Erik thought, frustrated, as he finally heard wheels come round the corner. He jumped up as if he had been scalded, and watched the old man pull up in the carriage. He saw him open the back of the carriage and look around a bit, frowning slightly, and Erik heard a faint 'Hello' call out. He braced himself, and pressed the knob to open the passage, and walked out. The old man gave a start, seeing him seemingly walk out of the wall, Erik looked at him, shyly, then at the floor. The old man looked at him kindly, then indicated the organ.

"Could you give me a hand?" he asked, "It's heavy, and I'm not as young as I used to be." Erik nodded and moved forwards to help him place the organ on a sort of cart, that made it easy to manoeuvre. The old man looked at him in wonder, he was strong for his age – from poling the boat across the water constantly. Erik pushed the organ away from the man on his own, using all his strength to move it the way he wanted it to – he refused to ask for help. The old man watched Erik struggle, and moved forwards.

"Do you want a hand?" he asked kindly, smiling at Erik, who looked up quickly, and saw something in his eyes – was it pity? He flinched away from his touch.

"I don't need your pity." He growled, and pushed the organ through the passage, leaving the old man wondering what had happened, and how he managed to walk through walls. He then turned back to the carriage, and went back to his shop, that was low on business.

Erik silently fumed as he pushed the heavy organ down the labyrinth he knew so well. He didn't need charity, or pity. He didn't want the old man's help. It was all _his_ fault he was pitied, _his_ fault he was so weak, he had let the gypsies make him weak, and hadn't done anything about it - until it was too late. And how on _Earth_ was he going to move the organ across the lake? Erik reached the shore, still undecided. He stopped at the edge, it was obvious he wouldn't be able to take it in the boat, it was too heavy. He leant against the wall, panting slightly, it was _really _heavy! He sank down slightly, and his back pressed against a lever he didn't know was there, and he fell into the rock. He sat up quickly – there was a passage round the lake! One that would be impossible to find, unless you knew where it was... and Erik wasn't about to give his secret away to _anyone_. He fetched the organ, and heaved it through the entrance, and it closed, leaving Erik thankful for his increasingly brilliant night-vision. Living in the dark had another bonus.

Erik _finally_ managed to tug the organ into the place he had intended it to go, and sat down on the floor, wiping the sweat from his face, the mask seeming increasingly uncomfortable. He took it off, and went over to the half-mask he had been making. He picked it up, the sharp white glowing in the semi-darkness. He placed it over his features, and it fit perfectly. He grinned at his handiwork, and turned back to the organ he had longed to play for so long. He sat on the bench he had made, and opened up the lid.

Erik placed his long fingers upon the vibrant keys of the piano, and began to play, beginning with scales he had watched others perform, and going through music slowly, making it up as he went along, just losing himself in the noise and feel of the notes caressing him. It seemed right. He smiled and closed his eyes, and let the music wash over him.

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**So... What do you think? Let me know - click on the review button, please! I dont care how short it is! Let me know what you think! It wont take a minute!**

**Thanks, Oreal  
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	8. Chapter 8

**Hi, Im back :) and yep, it's another quick update, I'm chuffed with myself**

**I OWN NOTHING, except Henri :)**

**well, we know how Erik's doing, what about his dear brother, mother and father???  
**

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**Chapter 8  
**

Around the same time Erik was teaching himself to swim (well a lake _can_ be dangerous if you don't know how), swinging around above the stage after the stagehands had left and gone to bed (or gone to irritate the dancers and performers), and learning quickly how to play the organ, his family had found out he had gone.

Erik's mother, Madame Dupet, went to the gypsy circus like she did every month, to see how he was – she didn't really expect him to be any better than all the other times, in fact she had watched as he got less and less of the person she knew he used to be. She arrived, and paid the fee to get in, but the tent reading 'devil's child' was missing. Her heart froze in her chest. Had they finally managed to do it? Was he gone? Had they killed him? She didn't care about the crowds around her as she wept for her lost son. There was a little hope in her that he had managed to escape – and she did notice that one of the gypsies – the one that usually showed them around – was also missing. She worried for Erik, was he dead? Was he out there somewhere? She knew that if he'd managed to escape, it was unlikely he had managed to settle down somewhere. The world was a cruel place, especially to this little boy she didn't deserve to call her son.

She went home, a broken woman, and Henri noticed immediately that something was wrong. He couldn't for a second fathom what could be upsetting her, he, for one, was over the moon with Erik's escape – but then again, there was no way she could know about that.

Over the next few weeks, Henri began to really worry about his mum, she had retreated into herself, and wouldn't talk to anyone, she always seemed to wear black, and other dark colours, instead of her usual bright ones. His father tried to talk her out of it, wondering what was wrong. She couldn't tell him, he didn't really care about Erik, he was always the one on the end of the whip or belt, the one who persuaded her he deserved it. She barely recognised Henri's efforts.

Henri managed to confront her about a month after it began, his father was out at the pub, he had been drinking more and more lately, worrying about his wife and beginning to hate his job. He worked hard to try and keep Henri in school and all the clubs he went to, and it began to show. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and couldn't take the stress very well. Henri cornered his mum in her bedroom, and stopped her walking away – he was quite strong, like his father.

"What is it?" He asked her intently, when he was sure she wouldn't escape. "What's bothering you, it's obvious that something is. Don't worry, I won't tell father if you don't want me to, but I can't stand to see you like this. _Tell me what's wrong._" She looked into the face of her youngest son, and the tears began to fall, for the first time in a month, cool, cleansing tears, she clung to him as she cried, and he stood, slightly bewildered, but comforted her all the same. "Don't worry, I'm here. Tell me what's wrong." He insisted.

"It's. I'm so sorry. It's my fault." She cried as she clung to him. "He's gone. I never, never defended him. And I don't know where he is. And he could be dead. And he wasn't there. And. And..." She broke down, as Henri began to understand where she was coming from.

"Who?" He asked, he had to be sure they were thinking about the same person.

"My dear, dear son... My poor Erik." She sobbed, and Henri nodded.

"You went back." He said, quietly. She nodded, tears still winding down her face.

"I've been going every month for the last six years. He's so small and helpless. How could I let him go?" She looked at him with pleading eyes. "Please understand. He's my son! I love him with every breath in my body, your _brother_!" She grabbed at him. "I know you didn't like him – but that was years ago. And he's sweet, really! He didn't do anything wrong." Her eyes were begging him to understand. He nodded and stroked her hair.

"I know." He murmured. "I went back too." She looked at him in shock. He smiled, "I saw him escape." She looked into his eyes, the same green as hers gazed back at her.

"What happened?" She asked, dreading the answer.

"He took a length of rope, strangled the gypsy who was beating him after the crowds left, a young ballerina let him out, and they ran past me. I followed them, and the girl – she looked a bit older than Erik – took him to the Opera House. I think he's safe there." He looked at the floor. "I'm sorry, I suppose I should have said, but I thought you'd tell dad... And." He left it there, she knew full well what he meant. She stood up, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.

"Thank you, Henri." She said, smiling for the first time in weeks. "I won't breathe a word." She assured him, and they readied themselves to face Mousier Dupet when he came back drunk. He was getting more and more dangerous, and his brilliant mind was waning from the amount of alcohol he drunk.

He came in the door, staggering. He had drunk a lot, and had come home to find his wife, happier than she had been in a month, and his son standing there, looking older than his 11 years. He looked him right in the eye, which he saw as a challenge.

"Wha' you lookin' at?" He slurred at him, narrowing his eyes. "You, my shon..." He smacked his lips. "Need to learn some manners." His voice was full of drink, and he reeked. Henri crinkled his nose, unintentionally. His father erupted.

"SHMELL DO OI?" He cried, walking towards his son, who realised his mistake, and began edging backwards as fast as his father was walking forwards. "OI'M GONNA HAVE TO – hic – TEECH YOU SOME RESHPECT!" and Henri turned and ran from the room, his father in hot pursuit. Henri was steadier on his feet, his mind not having been numbed by drink. He went into the kitchen, and vaulted out of the window, just as the father grabbed his ankle. He slammed to the ground, outside, his father still holding his foot from the window. He looked scarily triumphant.

Henri tried desperately to loosen his grip, but to no avail, he was holding on as if his life depended on it, with one hand, and with the other, he loosened his belt. Henri cringed, and wriggled desperately. He managed to pull his foot out of the shoe his father was gripping so tightly, and rolled out of reach of the belt that whistled his way. He pushed himself to his feet, and ran from the window. He turned to see his mother come up behind his father, and place a hand on his shoulder. He whipped round, and raised the belt to her. Henri had had enough.

"DON'T YOU TOUCH HER!" He screamed at the man, running back to the window, and flying through it. He grabbed the end of the belt as it was about to come down, and his father turned back to him, a fire blazing in his eyes.

"It'sh my houshe." He said, the drink more noticeable in his anger, as he turned on him. "And I'll do what I wish." He narrowed his eyes, and promptly collapsed on the floor, snoring loudly. Henri just stood there for a minute, and breathed a sigh of relief. He turned to his mother, who was cowering on the floor, tears in her eyes. He helped her to her feet, and kicked his father in the stomach as hard as he could. Madame Dupet gasped, and grabbed him, and he turned away. He helped his mother to her bedroom, and instructed her to sleep. She smiled at him, and he heard her whisper.

"My son." As she fell asleep. Henri grinned, and went to his own room, but slept little and lightly. He wondered what Erik was up to.

*****

Over the next few months, Henri and his mother had their hands full with Mousier Dupet, and his alcohol. He drank a lot, and came home, and Henri was the only one protecting them. As soon as his father got home, he held his sword to his throat, and instructed he go to bed, and only when his snores filled the house, did he lower his weapon, and check on his mother. He often wondered what Erik was up to, and if he was still in the Opera House. He wondered how the young ballerina was, and whether she was looking after him well.

In the mornings, Henri went to school, and tried to act like nothing was wrong with his friends, but spoke little, worrying how his mother was at home, and how Erik was, and whether his father was drinking, or actually working like he claimed. In the afternoons, he went to different clubs, he did music, swordsmanship, fencing, horse riding, and archery. In the evenings, he waited up with his mother, until his father came home, and made sure he made it harmlessly to his bed. The weekends were taken up with homework, and keeping an eye on his mother and father, who was always apologetic in the mornings, and thanked Henri for protecting them. Henri looked him in the eye and told him the problem was that he drunk so much, and his father looked ashamed, but claimed his son 'had no idea what he was going through'. Henri snorted at that.

They had no chance to check on Erik, and see how he was doing in the next few months, they were so busy. Henri managed to make his way to the Opera House once, and spoke to Antoinette, who was in a hurry. She claimed he didn't have any need for money of any sort, and that Erik was fine. She then ran off to rehearsals, she had just been allowed to perform in the Operas, and she practised as often as she could. She was a natural ballerina, and she shone in her talents. Henri nodded and hurried off too, he had to get back to his parents. Little did he know that Erik had seen the whole meeting, and was curious as to what was going on.

He rushed back home, and found his father had gone out drinking again, and sighed in defeat – then went to retrieve his sword.

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**What do you think??? Let me know, REVIEW :) please.**

**Thanks**

**Oreal  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey, sorry it's been a bit longer thn usual, I got a bit of writer's block about half-way through. I fear it's getting a bit boring, so I will try and add more to it.**

**Anyway, let me know what you think...  
**

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**Chapter 9**

Antoinette ran through the ever more familiar tunnels, left, right... she made her way lower and lower underground. She didn't know exactly where she was going, but there was a sound – so beautiful, and lonely. It wormed it's way through the tunnels, and you could hear it from four levels down, Antoinette knew of Erik's wish to get an Organ, but she hadn't realised he had brought one.

Down, down, down, she made her way, following the sweet, sad melody gripping her heart, she didn't know where Erik had set up home, she had come down to where he used to stay, and all his stuff was gone. But now she would be able to find him...

She almost fell in the lake, she was so enraptured by the tender sounds coming from across it. She stumbled on the edge, and looked at it in alarm – where had it come from? In all her 15 years, she had never seen anything like it... Lakes existed underground? How many people knew about this? Erik did, obviously, if the unceasing melody floating across it was anything to go by. Antoinette paused for a moment, and listened intently, if she was not mistaken, the melody was a new one. It was unlike anything she had heard, in fact. It spoke of loneliness, and a sad past.

_Erik._ He must have written it! She almost protested aloud when the music ceased, and silence pressed down on her. It was dark, and she could see nothing beyond the light of her candle, which only gave a faint glow. She heard slight muttering coming from across the lake, and a scratchy noise, then the music began again. Her heart reached out towards the sad 12 year old playing his heart out. She wept for him, the music was so profound. She wiped her face, and stared at the tears – no music had moved her to tears before. She gazed once more across the wide lake, then turned away. She didn't want to disturb him.

*****

_Rats._ One thing Erik disliked about this place, they were everywhere! They got into his kitchen, they crept into his bed, and he'd even found one funning along the keys of his organ. He hated them, the vermin. They were dirty and they didn't leave you alone, once you were here. He sighed, and made his way to his organ. He had learned a great deal in the last week, and had even begun composing his own pieces. He thought he would even add words to some of them.

He used to love singing, especially when he was with his parents. He would hide in a corner, and sing himself to sleep – there was nobody else to do it. He had heard his mother sing, to Henri, when he was little. Her voice was sweet and beautiful, and it used to bring tears to his eyes, knowing he would never get that treatment. So he sung to himself, sad lonely tunes that would have brought tears to the strongest man.

Erik sang to himself in the gypsy camp, but not much, and not loud. He mostly sang in his head, because if he was heard, it would be the whip for punishment. He couldn't help it though, music was in his soul. He couldn't ignore it. And in the Opera House, in the deepest cellar, he sang. Loudly, but with no-one in earshot. He sang of the hate of his parents, of new beginnings, and of cages and loneliness.

But right now, Erik couldn't sing – in fact, he couldn't even talk. He seemed to have woken up to find his voice had left him. _Great, not even my voice can stand to stick around._ He thought to himself, with a small grin at his joke. He sighed loudly, and placed himself at the organ which had quickly become precious to him. He placed his hands on the keys, and placed the piece of music he had been creating on the stand. He played through it, his eyes drifting closed every now and then to revel in the music flowing from his fingers.

At the end of the piece, he spoke softly to himself, _'no, a C major chord there, change that into a D-sharp...'_ He made a few changes to the sheet, and played again, unaware of the silent audience from across the lake. He sang the lyrics in his mind, them coming to him easily, displaying his misery and lonely mind.

There was so much he could express through the Organ. He could make it lively and happy, dark and spooky, or sad and lonely. All just with a touch of his fingers, and the flow of the notes. Sometimes, he felt such a close connection to the piece he was playing – it came as it came, and he didn't push the music, or the ideas coming from the brilliant mind he fed with books, he yearned to have extensive knowledge, knowledge is power, after all. And he wanted power, he had felt so powerless for so long.

He dropped his music sheets onto a pile of the conductor's music. Reyer had no idea where the music came from, and frowned when he found a new sheet... until he played it on his piano. The music was exquisite, unlike anything he had ever heard. The lyrics were beautiful, and he always managed to fit the song into the opera being performed, oftentimes, there was more than one of Erik's compositions drawing the crowds in, and the people began pouring in.

Erik loved to hear his music being played, he knew how to fit the other instruments into the tune, even though he had never heard them play before. Occasionally, he found a slight error in one of his pieces for a singular instrument, and he re-wrote that part, and Reyer (only a young musician at this point) placed it in, as the instructions said. He never knew who was composing them, and usually took the credit for himself. Erik didn't mind, he just loved to hear the music flowing from the instruments.

*****

Erik found it frustrating that his voice seemed to be missing for a while, but it never crossed his mind at what would happen after it returned.

A few days had passed, and the managers seemed to sense that Erik, or their 'Ghost' was in a bad mood, when Erik awoke after another nauseating nightmare, to find he hadn't done too much damage. He faced his reflection in the mirror and absently spoke to himself.

"This will be the death of you, Erik." He chuckled at his little joke, and ran his fingers through his hair, messing it up. He frowned, and his hand paused half-way through the dark tresses. He looked at his reflection, the confusion on his face would have been quite comical if anyone else had seen it. He licked his lips, and spoke again.

"Hello?" His eyebrows shot towards his hairline at the sound of his voice. "What is wrong with me?" He frowned again. His voice had deepened about an Octave, and was unlike anything he had ever known. Where his voice had been childlike and innocent a few days ago, it was now a deep, melodious baritone. He frowned at himself again, and shook his head at his reflection. He placed the white half-mask over the right of his face again, and turned away, accepting the strange change.

He made his way up the dark tunnels, wishing to watch the people of the opera house go about their daily routine. He knew them all by name by now, he was 13 now, although he did not know when his birthday was, he knew when Henri's was, and always put himself a year older. He only did this to keep track of his age, all memories he had of that date were miserable ones. Henri would have friends over, and gifts, while Erik was locked away upstairs, and warned not to spoil the event. He often felt like shouting out, just to irritate them, but he remembered the hit of the whip, and held off.

He watched the dancers, they were mesmerising. The fluid movements from their arms and feet captivated him. The young girls dressed in little and he found himself drawn to them, but could not fathom why, he told himself it was because he enjoyed the dancing – he lived for music and he wanted to make sure all went perfectly. His eyes were mainly trained on Antoinette, and her professional grace outshining the other dancers in the new dance she had learned so quickly.

He told himself he was watching over her, she had saved him, after all and he wanted to protect her. He felt he might be able to think about her as a friend, she seemed to care about him, even if her beauty of 16 years. She had developed quickly over the last year, her brunette hair shining and had many suitors following her, and Erik frowned when he thought of that, and an unknown beast leered up inside him. He placed his thought aside, and watched her dance. And the others of course...

Antoinette felt his eyes upon her, and smiled to herself – he had been there for almost a year now, and he was blossoming, he had been growing considerably, and now stood slightly taller than her. She missed seeing him so often, but ever since she had gone down, and heard the hauntingly beautiful music filling the cavernous hallways, she had not had a minute to spare, and rehearsals left her exhausted and sleeping the whole night through.

He had been watching her more and more over the last few weeks, and she found his gaze somehow comforting, she knew – somehow – that she would not be in danger if he was watching over her. She had not actually seen him for ages, and had heard his voice almost as little. But she had to deliver his pay today, and she would be able to see him again.

They went through the routine several more times, until Antoinette's legs were begging for a rest, and her toes were beginning to complain. She breathed a huge sigh of relief, and sat down, giving her aching muscles a short rest. LeFevre came up to her with a large envelope in his hand. He had a frown on his face, and didn't look very happy.

"Here." He grunted. "For your ghost." He held the envelope out to her, but seemed slightly reluctant to let go of it. He held on until Antoinette pulled it out of his grasp. He looked down at her and sighed. "Why do I give in?" he asked himself, and walked away, leaving Antoinette holding the envelope, with the other ballerinas looking at her, annoyed about her being in with the Opera Ghost, who they had given up not believing when hearing his voice echo over the stage once after a bad rehearsal. He hadn't seemed happy.

Antoinette took the envelope in her hand and left the room, her feet protesting slightly. She went into the hallway, and looked around. There was nobody around, and she pressed a knob behind a photograph, and ducked into the small opening that appeared.

Erik watched her enter the darkness that was his home, and go off down the passageway a short way, until they were definitely out of earshot from the opera house. Then she stopped and looked round.

"Erik? I know you're there, I can feel your eyes on me." Erik immediately looked away, and came out from his hiding place. He had grown a bit since she had last seen him, and although he was very thin, he had muscles beginning to appear from all the running and poling he did, not to mention pulling himself up ropes and swinging from them backstage. She had caught him doing that on one occasion, and just watched him silently, he was full of grace.

He gave a small, half-smile to her and held his hand out.

"It is nice to see you again, Antoinette." She almost gasped aloud, his voice had broken! She gave a small grin to conceal her surprise, and replied.

"And you, my friend." Erik was shocked by her words, he had never been called a friend by anyone before, and he found her words warming his heart slightly. He gave a real smile, and Antoinette was astounded by the change it made. He seemed older, and younger at the same time, a young man who had so much to offer, and she was surprised to notice how much he had changed, into a real young man. When she had found him, he was a child, with no self-respect, dirty clothes and sad eyes.

Here, he seemed much more comfortable and relaxed, his soulful green eyes were still incredibly sad, from memories that would probably hurt him for the rest of his life, to some extent. He hadn't told her much about his life before he came to the opera house, but she guessed he had been in the gypsy camp for some years and his life before that was not happy. She hoped she could make his life happy from now on, he deserved that. The not-so-small-any-more thirteen year old, who was just finding his feet.

She gazed at him again, her eyes starting from his feet, and ending at the tips of his thin hair that seemed to be thickening slightly and was a dark colour, and no longer in need of a cut, but trimmed professionally, but not too short and hanging almost to his shoulder (and kind of sexy). His muscles were slightly pulling and she found herself looking at him in a different light, he might be 3 years her junior, but she wasn't going to turn down some eye candy when it came her way.

"You're looking good, Erik." She heard herself saying, and quickly raised her eyes to his, the doubt in them intense. He gave a disbelieving snort, but did not say anything. He looked at her, and smiled again, although this one was lacking in the happiness of the last one.

"So are you." He replied, "You dance well." _WHAT?! Why did he say that?_ He looked at the floor, and she smiled.

"Thank you, I try my best." She held the envelope out to him, and he took it. "Your pay." He gave a small grin and turned away.

"It was nice to see you again." She heard him say, as he backed away. "Thank you." He turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Antoinette wondering where the little boy she had rescued had gone.

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**How am I doing? I beg for reviews, I only have one at the moment...**

**I'd like to thank 'Masked Angel Of Music' or as they used to be 'sprinkledwithtwilight' for sticking with me.  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hi, sorry this one took so long to update, I've been so busy this week. I've just started year 10, and there's tonnes of homework! **

**Anyway, enjoy!  
**

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**Chapter 10**

Erik once again found himself standing in front of the old man who ran the music shop. The old man had been visiting the entrance to his lair, the alleyway, and Erik had had enough. He stepped out from the secret passage and stood in front of him.

"What do you want?" He asked, in an unfriendly tone. He wasn't very happy, he had been watching Antoinette for a while and found her being surrounded by suitors, most of which she turned away. Except one, and it was getting on his nerves. He didn't know why he felt like this, possessive. He told himself he just cared about her, and didn't want her hurt.

The old man looked slightly taken aback by his forwardness. He frowned at the boy, whose eyes were older than his face. He found himself wondering what had happened to him (and also why he seemed to be living in the underground under the opera house). He had heard of an opera ghost, from the musicians who entered his shop, and realised that was this child in front of him.

He truly didn't know the answer to Erik's question, as he stood in front of him, the half-mask shining in the half-light. Erik didn't bother covering it, it would probably freak him out a bit. He frowned at the boy,

"I'm here... because..."

"Yes?" Erik said, impatiently.

"I was... wondering how the organ was working for you? Um... Is it okay?" He almost blushed with the intensity of the glare Erik gave him. He seemed to be sizing him up.

"It's fine." He answered slowly, a slightly confused look on his face. "Do you usually make personal visits?" he asked, wondering why he was here, _really_. The old man looked away again.

"No." He replied truthfully. Erik almost grinned at the sight, but he kept his composure. He stood there, his arms crossed in front of him a slight frown on his face, his head cocked slightly to the side. The old man looked back up at him, and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry." And Erik could hold it back any more, the corners of his mouth curled up into a grin, then he broke into a full smile, and shook his head in disbelief.

The old man looked at Erik in slight shock, he looked so much younger when he smiled! Erik uncrossed his arms, and half-smiled at him.

"Why are you here?" he asked again... "_Really_." He added. The old man thought for a second.

"I don't really know." He offered. "I wanted to know how you were." He grinned again. Erik looked confused.

"Why do you care?" he asked. "I'm only a customer, with money to pay for what he wishes. Why would you want anything to do with me?" The old man looked at him, was it pity? He looked away quickly, remembering how their last conversation ended.

"Where did you get the money to pay for it? From your parents?" he asked, how does a child gain that much? Erik's eyes flashed a fiery green.

"You think I'm a thief?" he asked. "I can assure you I got the money myself, honestly. So you have your answer, you can leave." The old man stepped forwards.

"No! I didn't say you were a thief!" he assured him. "I just wondered how a child—"

"_I'm not a child!"_ Erik roared. "_I was never allowed to be a child._" He suddenly realised what he'd said. He looked at the floor, but the old man caught a glimpse of pain and suffering in the sea-green eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that you were a child. I just wondered how-"

"Well don't." Erik told him, and the old man stopped rambling. "Leave me alone." Erik said quietly, and turned away.

"Well if you ever want anything – you know where my shop is!" The old man called to his retreating back. Erik turned around, and looked him up and down... He had been thinking about purchasing a violin... He nodded once and went back into the passage. The old man looked slightly confused for a minute, and then he turned to leave.

*****

Henri was standing in front of his mother, his sword locked with the one his father had brought home with him. He seemed to have remembered that he would be threatened. Madame Dupet looked on in fear, her twelve-year-old son locked in battle with her drunken husband. Well she knew who she'd rather win, but she was unsure about what the outcome would be.

Henri backed up slightly, to his mother's side and whispered in her ear,

"Go, I'll hold him off, get your things, we're leaving." He heard her intake of breath and felt her nod. She replied to him.

"I'll get your stuff too." He nodded and she ran off. Monsieur Dupet shouted at her retreating back;

"_**What did he say???**_**"** Henri ignored him, and held his sword loosely in his hand. He took his father's temporary weakness to his advantage and thrust forwards, the blade cut into his arm, and he roared in anger.

Monsieur Dupet answered with a thrust of his own, but Henri easily parried it. He clashed the blade against his father's and saw him wince where he had cut him just before. He roared again and swung dangerously at him, but Henri easily cut the weight off, and made him stumble, Henri took advantage of it and swung at him. He hated this, his face contorted in fear and pain. He didn't want to hurt his father, but he knew he had no choice.

They clashed blades again, and Henri's mother winced from upstairs where she was throwing lots of clothes into a bag haphazardly. She forgot jewellery, and put money in. She bunged it full of necessities, frantically trying to ignore the grunts and cries of pain coming from downstairs.

Henri's father managed to draw blood from him, and he cried out. He swung back at him, and caught the blades together, he twisted his blade around that of his father's and the drunk lost his grip, it fell to the floor and Henri placed his foot on it. He roared in anger at the sight of his son standing over him, victorious. He slowly stood in front of him, and Henri pressed the blade to his neck.

"Bed." He spoke angrily, and Monsieur Dupet frowned at his son, but followed his wishes – he _did _have a blade pressed to his throat. Around this time, Henri's mother came into the room, clutching a large bag in her arms. Henri nodded at her, and forced his father backwards into his bedroom, where he sat down on the bed. Henri raised his eyebrows as he lay down, glaring at him, and slipped into deep snores almost immediately.

Henri turned to his mother, and ran to his bedroom, he opened the safe behind a photograph, and pulled wads of cash out – he'd been spoiled rotten... He stuffed them into the bag, pulled his belt on, put his sword into the sheath, grabbed a couple of daggers and stuffed them in his socks where he had a holder for them. His mother looked on in wonder as he concealed another in his lower back and the back of his neck. He looked at her, and spoke in a low voice.

"Don't leave my sight." He warned her, and she nodded worriedly. Together they left the house, and took the carriage Henri had been taught to drive a while ago.

Headed for places unknown.

*****

Erik stood in the shadows looking down at the young ballerinas. They were having a break, and Antoinette stood talking to the young man whom she had not turned away. He felt a strange anger rage up in him when he touched her hand. He narrowed his eyes at him, and the young man – he looked around 18 years old. Antoinette was only 16. He frowned at him again, as the ballerinas began to dance once again, and he stood watching, with a small smile on his face. Erik turned away, he couldn't watch any longer. He fled the scene and went to watch the new 18-year-old diva who they had managed to persuade to come and perform at their opera house.

Carlotta was from an Italian Opera house that had been pulling in hundreds of visitors, and she had been in the chorus. The leading soprano was exquisite, and there was no chance of obtaining her, but Carlotta was several times better than their current soprano and she was reaching her peak. Her voice was strong and easily reached the back of the hall. Her accent was a bit strong, so most things she said were hard to understand, but she was increasingly good at French, and could sing the lyrics well enough. Erik found her amusing, she seemed slightly big-headed, going from a chorus member to the prima donna of the stage. In a word, he would describe her as... Smug.

He heard her rehearse for a while, and wrote a note about her pronunciation and commanded someone get her a more efficient tutor who would work on it. He watched Antoinette when she came on stage, and immediately chastised himself when he noticed what he was doing. He looked away from her and made his way away from the stage area, they would survive without his notes for today. He went to M. LeFevre's office where he stood talking to his son.

"Yes, father, I know you like it here, but you know you can still visit often. You _are_ getting on in years and I don't think you should have the stress of taking on the Opera House all by yourself. I assure you, I will provide suitable funding, you know I love the music here." LeFevre looked down upon his child's eager expression and sighed.

"You don't understand, boy. You're still so young. I –"

"I'm _not_ a child, father. I am 19 now, I'd rather prefer if you treated me as I am. You have told me everything about this place, I know everything that goes on, I understand how this sort of thing works, you're trained me long enough. Am I to be a child forever?" He looked up at his father stubbornly, and Erik found himself smiling slightly at the scene in front of him. It was so natural. The smile faltered, his father hated him. He wouldn't have let him argue, he knew it would have been the whip. He looked down, why did this affect him? He didn't need their love, or anyone's! He was fine the way he was.

"I know you aren't a child." LeFevre was saying. "I just –" He didn't know how to say it.

"You haven't told me everything." The young man said, looking his father in the eye. "There's something else, the reason you've got more lines on your forehead, the reason you're finding it so hard nowadays." He frowned. "And maybe the reason the Operas have improved?" LeFevre smiled at his son.

"You know me too well, my boy." He bowed his head. "There is something..." He stopped, when his son looked at him eagerly. "You don't want to know." He muttered, and the younger man sighed.

"Father, we've been through this. I'm not a child, I can handle whatever you throw at me." He winked, "I take after my dad." LeFevre laughed at his son's antics, and Erik found tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. Why couldn't he have something like this? LeFevre looked around, warily. Erik knew that he hadn't told his son about him, what else was there to protect him from? He shook his head, if they could see how weak he was at that moment, a thirteen year old boy who was forced to do what he did to save his life, and mind from becoming corrupted forever.

LeFevre's son looked confused at his father's worried look, and asked who could possibly hear what he had to say. He was answered, told that 'he' knew everything that was said in the Opera House. He was confused at that, but he let it pass, asking who he was talking about. He heard the word Opera Ghost, and scoffed. He thought it all sounded like some sort of ridiculous prank. Even after his father told him everything, he was only annoyed that he went along with it and that he was being cheated out of so much money. He went to cross the name out of the pay list, when Erik realised he would have to do something.

"Don't you dare." The spoken threat echoed through the room, and the young man froze in slight fear, his father's eyes widened and he began to shake. Erik grinned at the way his voice could inflict fear into his victims.

"LeFevre, I command you keep a hold of your son. He seems to be slightly unruly at the moment, and is disbelieving of my existence. I assure you, I will be incredibly displeased if I do not receive my pay this month." LeFevre's son spoke up.

"What does a ghost need with money?" Erik was becoming annoyed with that question. He threw his voice across the room, like only he and a handful of other people could do and whispered in his ear.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" The boy jumped, his father started, not hearing the voice that had hissed in his son's ear.

"I said, didn't I? Don't mess with him." His son shakily nodded his head, he had not managed to find a source to the voice he had heard, and Erik was almost laughing at the look of shock and panic on his face. He dropped the quill he had been going to write in, and edged away from the paper. Erik smiled. It seemed the new manager wouldn't be much problem.

He walked off, humming a tune almost silently, and smiling slightly. He rounded a corner in the darkness, and looked through the next peep-hole. The smile slipped from his face. No. He backed away from the wall, then turned and fled through the tunnels, he could not have seen it! NoNoNoNoNoNoNo.

He felt jealousy sear through his veins, he couldn't believe it.

He had just caught Antoinette and her suitor kissing during her lunch break.

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**:) how am I doing? Boring you yet? I'll introduce Christine soon, dont worry.**

**Please let me know if there's anything I'm doing wrong, or you have any ideas, I'd love to take any feedback you can give.**

**Oreal  
**


	11. Chapter 11

**I'M STILL ALIVE!!!**

**sorry its been a while, ive been busy!!! so much homework, but I managed it :).... so enjoy :D  
**

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**Chapter 11**

Erik pounded on the keys of his organ, anger coursing through his veins. Antoinette was _his_, she rescued _him_! She was the only one who had ever shown him kindness and he didn't want to share her... So he was rather taking the news of her engagement badly. It was three years on and the young manager had grown rather used to the ghost who haunted the house... Well he could come in handy a lot of the time and he began to suspect their not-so-friendly spectre was helping rather a lot in the shows... Music turning up from nowhere, fitting the parts, notes arriving on the piles to help make the show bigger and better... It was a win-win situation.

But recently their ghost had turned nasty. There would be unexplained backdrops falling and sandbags almost hitting people, and he didn't seem very fond of Carlotta's rising fame. She was exceptional... and she knew it. Now every now and then, there would be the faint sound of music if you walked down a particular corridor, and it wasn't soothing or soft... Loud notes played a long way away haunted the corridors, causing the chorus girls to wander round in groups so as not to be caught.

Antoinette was 18 now and she was allowed to get married without consent, except her own. She had been dating Derek for about 3 years now and they were getting on very well. He had proposed while Erik had watched. Her face had lit up and she had leapt on him, hugging him tightly... Erik had turned away and ran to his organ, his blood boiling. Nobody had ever touched him like that. Nobody had cared enough, not even his own mother, all of whom he remembered were the eyes, the same green as his own. Filled with sadness and never smiling at him, always miserable... unless she turned towards his brother, the name was slipping... Harold? Henri? Horace? He shook his head, it didn't matter anyway, all he could remember was the hate and the feel of the whip on his back and side.

He was alone again, Antoinette had left him. She hardly visited any more, she left his pay in his box, box 5 that he had commanded as his own, he didn't want to have to watch from the rafters anymore. So he hid in the shadows as people tried to see who sat there and watched the operas which took him out of his miserable existence and transported him to the world of music, some of which he created.

The music pounded through the halls, Erik seeming so much older than his fifteen year old self... and he was developing feelings he didn't like. He found the chorus girls intriguing, with their light clothing and gorgeous figures. He sometimes couldn't keep his eyes off them. He hated it, the feelings of not being strong enough, not being in control of his feelings. But he told himself sternly that nobody would ever touch him willingly. He shoved the feelings to the back of his mind and forced himself to be stronger. Though, he would still catch himself staring at the girls, and would angrily turn away.

Antoinette's marriage was a small ceremony, she did not have much family but her closest friends from the opera house went to watch. Erik refused the invite, actually, he was astounded to have received it, but decided that he wasn't really wanted, but she felt she had to invite him... she knew he would refuse anyway. She looked so happy when she returned and Erik looked on glumly as she danced with her new husband and forgot he even existed... as usual.

He turned back towards his home, the organ wasn't right, he needed something to show how he was really feeling... He left the opera into the night. He had a violin to buy.

It was dark, but that never fazed Erik, his life was in darkness and could see in it now almost as clearly as if the sun was shining. He arrived at the small music shop, it was empty. Erik sighed, he should have known. He shook his head and turned to walk away, just as a voice called him from above. He slipped into the shadows quickly, and looked upwards. The old man who ran the shop was looking down at where he had just been standing.

"Hello? What is it you want?" came the voice. Erik jumped slightly and threw his voice into the room above.

"Keep your voice down, monsieur." Erik almost grinned at the yelp that followed his comment. Only the old man would have heard his voice, thrown up to sound beside his head. "You do not know me?" Erik asked him, and watched the man shake his head rapidly. The light in his eyes faded slightly.

"The boy in the mask." He hissed in his ear, and the old man jumped again, but nodded and his head vanished from the window. Erik began to think he wouldn't be coming when the door opened in front of him and the old man stood in front of him... quite a bit shorter than he remembered him, although Erik had grown to about 6ft by now, and wasn't quite done yet. Although it did mean he no longer had to fix the clothes he wore to fit him.

He stepped in the door at the man's beckon and closed it behind him.

"How may I help you?" The old man asked kindly, slightly intimidated by the young man's height. Erik looked down on him.

"I wish to purchase a violin." He stated, no longer the small stammering child he had met before. The old man felt he hardly knew him, if it wasn't for the white mask that came sharply into view when Erik pushed back his hood. He nodded and turned the light on. Erik cursed under his breath and squinted into the light, his eyes unused to it.

He looked around the now bright room and walked majestically over to the wall which held a violin case. The old man looked at him anxiously,

"Have you ever played a violin before?" he asked, his eyes on the floor. Erik turned to look at him, and cocked his head to the side.

"No. But I had never played an organ before either, I'm sure I'll pick it up." He stated with authority, it was obvious he was going to get his own way. The old man nodded and lifted a case from a stand. He placed it on the floor and opened it. The violin sat on a green cushion-like material, the bow next to it. He took the bow out and ran the resin up and down it, some of it dusting the floor. He pulled the violin out after it and held them out to Erik.

"Would you like a go?" he asked, a sort of half-grin on his face. It seemed like the person in front of him would never fail at anything, but the violin was a hard instrument to learn and it would normally take years to play it at a good standard. Erik looked confused for a second, then took the violin and bow from the owner and placed it under his chin. He pulled the bow across a string, a pure note emitting from the instrument.

The old man looked on in wonder as Erik played the instrument as if he had been learning for years. After a few off notes, he seemed to have noted the technique and skill, and was putting his fingers in the right places to make the instrument ring out clear. Then Erik closed his eyes and let the music take him.

The old man stopped thinking, as the teen's fingers pulled the softest notes out of the instrument. He found tears running down his face as the saddest melody he had ever heard drifted around him. He did not recognise it, and he had worked with music his whole life. If he was not very mistaken, it was an original melody... one that the person in front of him, swaying in time to the forlorn notes caressing the air around them had either written or was, impossibly, making it up... The masked adolescent (he couldn't think of him as a man, he was only fifteen) seemed lost in a different place, not in the shop, but in the pain of his memories and loneliness, and the feelings of betrayal.

Erik slowly drew out the last note and sighed, he had never thought it would sound so good when he imagined the sound coming out of the wood. He opened his eyes slowly to see the old man standing in front of him, an amazed look on his face, not moving. Erik lowered the instrument.

"Close your mouth, old man." He said, "You look incredibly gormless." The old man started and blinked at his rudeness, frowning slightly. He shook his head.

"You've never played a violin before?" he asked, astounded. Erik frowned and shook his head. "Well I can't imagine what it would sound like after some practice!" the old man muttered. Erik nodded, and knelt on the floor, placing the violin gently back in its case.

"How much?" he asked. The old man gaped at him. Then he shook his head,

"I should be asking you that." He told him, "I feel privileged listening to that," he smiled slightly. "Take it, it'll only grow dust here." He looked at his hands. "These things are too old to play it well enough anymore." He said sadly. Erik gaped at him. "Take care of her." Was the last thing the man said, before opening the door and leaving a bewildered Erik standing looking at it, a violin case in his hand. He looked down at it, then back at the door and smiled.

"Thank you." He whispered, before turning away and striding through the dark back to the opera house.

*****

Antoinette nodded to the manager, took the envelope in his hand, and decided that this month she would give Erik his salary personally, it was so long since she had seen him last, she had not really expected to see him at her wedding for she never saw him in public, but she hadn't heard anything from him since she had told him, except the haunting melodies sometimes floating to the surface.

She hadn't even noticed really, on her wedding day, that Erik had not been there, well not for longer than it took to scan the room before she looked up at her soon-to-be husband and forgot everything she had been thinking. She floated up the isle like a dream and the whole thing seemed to last only seconds before it was over.

She now walked down the familiar tunnels, taking the one path she knew to Erik's lair. She thought of the young boy who had seemed so scared, and shook her head. He had come so far from that, but he had not taken a direction she had anticipated. She regretted now not bringing him up to the surface and forcing the people to accept him for who he was, not the ghostly spectre who scared them all silly. And it was silly really, so much superstition she almost laughed at it.

The music that had often pulled her towards Erik's home wasn't echoing through the empty tunnels, the silence was complete. She stood on the bank of the lake, looking out at the vast expanse of it. She had found a way to cross it before, found the tunnel when Erik had appeared out of it one day. She pressed on the knob and watched the rock slide silently away.

Erik heard the footfalls coming through the tunnel and immediately regretted once more letting Antoinette catch him come through there. Her reaction was reasonably amusing when she first saw his home, her mouth almost hit the floor. She had frozen and gazed at the wonder Erik still enjoyed looking at months after it was created... though he now thought of it as his prison. He watched her appear through the tunnel and look around for him, where he sat on the stool by the organ.

He had quickly hidden the drawings he had been doing when Antoinette had opened the tunnel. She didn't know about that gift, and he didn't really want to see the look of wonder on her face she always got when she saw something he had achieved. It made him feel more trapped than ever, if it wasn't for his face, he would have given the world everything he had. But he wasn't going to think about that right now.

"What do you want?" he asked her as soon as she looked at him. She started at the sound of his voice, not a friend welcoming his one companion, but of someone who never wished to see her again. Someone who didn't care. She forced herself to smile at him and a thought entered her head... how often have I seen him smile?

"Hello, Erik." She said brightly, she brought the envelope out of her bag. "I brought your pay." He frowned at her, looking so different to the average 15yr old.

"Why?" he asked, darkly. He towered over her now, her only being 5ft 6, and him being almost 6ft. She looked up at him when he stood up and made herself face him.

"I wanted to see you, we haven't talked for so long." She said, and he turned his head away. _Why would she want to see him? Why did she torture him so, he envied her so much... her life was so much easier, a loving husband, recognition... but he shouldn't even ask for that sort of thing. It was not for a _monster_ to want. _He didn't want her to see the pain in his eyes.

"Why would you want anything to do with me?" he spat out bitterly, "I am a monster, I scare everyone and nobody really cares. You are happily married now, Madame – " He froze, realising he did not actually know her new surname. Antoinette looked up at him, struggling to keep her temper in check.

"You!" She cried, "I care for you, I am your _friend_. When will you accept that? You are _not_ a monster, Erik. And I never want to hear you call yourself that again. You are a man, a human being. You have needs and wants like the rest of us. And yes, what have you got against my marriage?" she poked him in the chest, and got momentarily distracted by the muscles she belt bunch under her palm. "And it's _Giry_." Erik stared at her for a moment before turning away.

"I'll remember that." He said quietly, tears threatening to escape. _NO! STOP IT, DON'T YOU DARE CRY, THAT'S WEAKNESS, YOU DO _NOT_ SHOW WEAKNESS! _He nodded curtly, still facing the wall. "Leave the money. Adieu, Madame Giry." He heard her leave, and breathed deeply. He could not let his weaknesses show!

*****

Henri and Madame Dupet had, by this time, managed to settle into their new lives. They had traded their names for new ones, keeping their first names but severing any ties with Mousier Dupet. They were lucky, England was easy enough to set up home in. The money they had taken was enough to get them there and they had found employment with a rich nobleman. Mrs Doyle (Madame Dupet's new name) had found a position in the kitchens, having always enjoyed cooking, and Henri was working in the stables. It was hard work, and not what they were used to, but they had managed to settle in.

Henri refused to allow himself to forget his brother, he knew Erik was out there somewhere, in France still, probably (he had thanked God for his English lessons when they had arrived) and he wanted to help him, where he had once hurt him. He still had nightmares about Erik in the cage, always replacing the man beating him with his own face, the one locking him in. The one Erik hated with a vengeance, the one who now lay dead... He shook his head from the dark thoughts and finished rubbing the horse down, maybe he would be able to get to his quarters before it began to rain again... the one major problem with England, it could be really miserable.

*****

He was glad he was out of there, away from his father... But he wanted to know about a certain fifteen year old who now sat brooding underneath the Opera de Populaire.

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**what do you think? REVIEW!!! :):) please.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hey, it's been longer than usual again, SORRY, but i'll try to keep up with the updates, even if I am struggling a bit with school work atm.**

**Anyway, enjoy :)  
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**Chapter 12**

Erik's body thrashed around desperately in the blankets designed to keep the cold out, his voice crying out desperately as he dreamt of a tall figure standing over him, only the eyes visible and a belt in his hand. He felt it as he saw the weapon fall onto his back and he turned over in a ball to escape the blows and suddenly felt straw beneath his body and it was the gypsy standing over him, a whip in his fist and the unhealed skin on his back broke once more as it fell. The toy monkey he usually kept in his hand was ripped from him, his one help taken. The cries echoed around the cavern as the fifteen year old ripped the white mask from his face and gripped it tightly, so it almost bent from the inhuman strength. He heard the laughter of the crowd echo in his mind as his body shot up in the blankets, drenched with sweat and tears.

He sat there for several minutes, trying to calm his heart beat and slow his breathing. It almost worked, but the images from the dream still strong in his mind stopped him being able to calm down completely. He rose to his shaking legs and slowly made his way to the organ in the same room as he slept. He sat down hard on the stool and tried to calm his shaking nerves as he placed his fingers on the keys. The images from his nightmare still at the forefront of his mind, the music flowing from his fingers was beyond haunting. It was enough to show people their worst nightmares to hear the noise coming from the organ – not quite music, but not blind noise. It was organised chaos, like the world had never heard before. Erik lost himself in the pain and agony of the notes pouring out of his mind and fingertips, filling pages and pages with it – it would cause anyone to go mad.

The loud, horrible notes didn't quite reach the ears of the members of the Opera house, but all inhabitants found themselves filled with a sense of dread that none of them could place. Antoinette and her new husband were as quiet as everyone else, nobody breathing a word, Carlotta wasn't singing, the dancers weren't dancing and the stage hands weren't spying on anybody. Everyone just sat there, not looking at each other, feeling like they'd just committed a terrible deed. Antoinette was seeing a small boy being beaten in a cage, while she stood by and did nothing. The managers seeing their worst fears about the Opera Ghost who's demands were getting bigger and bigger.

Carlotta saw herself being thrown off the stage by someone better than her, while Antoinette's husband saw his love lying still, so still. All were seeing the most horrid things they had ever seen or imagined. The fear was on their faces, the strongest man pale and shaking. Silence. _Silence..._

The shrill scream cut through the silent air, startling the whole building. Other women screamed, men fell off their chairs onto the floor and everyone took deep breaths, trying to calm down from the intense emotions that flooded their bodies. Several floors down, Erik brought his shaking fingers from the keys at last – the blood he had caused from the earlier nightmare dried on his mask-free face. He looked around, his body pale and sweaty like it had been after the dream – the music... He could play no longer, and stumbled away from the organ so fast he fall off the stool. He backed away, fearful, until the palm of his hand found the cold water of the lake. He froze, leapt to his feet and ran into the freezing water.

His clothes were soon soaked, but Erik didn't notice, the notes still in his mind. The terrible chords, the horrifying music flooding his soul. He threw his body into the water, the cold shocking the breath out of him. The music almost shocked from his mind, the intensity of it vanishing in his fear.

The dried blood washed off his deformed face as his body floated under the ice-cold water, his eyes wide with an intense fear that had almost consumed him. If he had stayed at the organ much longer... he shuddered to think of it. But the cold of the underground lake had shocked the music from him. He lay under the water, a strange feeling coursing through his veins, terrified to emerge from the cold – the notes may return to him, their intensity so strong they would once again consume him. He thought desperately of the usual classical music he played, Mozart... _Anything_.

Antoinette returned from the strange world she had been in with a strange fear gripping her. She remembered her memories, the boy in the gypsy cage that had returned so clearly. _Erik!_

She turned from her worried husband, who was coming out of the revenue he had been in, like her. Her heart was still pumping against her chest as she ran as fast as her feet would take her, hardly noticing the footsteps following her. She turned sharply down the hall as her husband began to gain on her, she turned another corner and he lost sight of her. She quickly opened one of Erik's passages and vanished behind it, leaving her husband startled about her whereabouts.

She sprinted down the dark labyrinth, the feeling of dread filling her bones and keeping her pushing forwards. She didn't notice as her breath came in shorter gasps and she reached the other side of the large lake. She pressed urgently on the button and the gap appeared in the wall. She ignored the panting as she ran slightly slower down the passage and emerged on the other side.

"ERIK!"

She cried out as soon as she was able to speak. She hadn't begun to think of what she would do if he emerged. But there was no answer. Antoinette began to panic as she saw the state of his little nest, his 'bed'. He was always so tidy but the sheets were strewn all over, as if someone had been tossing and turning. There was blood dotting the sheets here and there, and Antoinette's breath froze in her chest. There wasn't much blood, but he had been hurt. What had happened?

She saw another dot of blood on the floor between the bed and the organ and raised her eyes to the instrument. There were sheets of music, the black ink sprawled and untidy, they were _everywhere_. Strewn all over the instrument, on the floor, and a couple were even ripped where Erik's feet would have been. She saw another couple of blood spots on the white keys, but none other anywhere. She looked through a couple of rooms, feeling hopeless, calling his name over and over... She stopped and gazed hopelessly out into the dark lake and stopped breathing.

A jumble of clothes were floating in the middle of the lake, and Antoinette was certain there was a body amongst the rags, and she knew she had to do something when she saw the white half-mask on the edge, almost in the water.

She ran out into the water, and gasped as the cold water hit her legs. It was freezing! She waded out, and reached Erik's limp body when she was almost out of her depth. She was shivering uncontrollably as she seized the back of his sopping clothes and pulled upwards. His eyes were open, wild and fearful. He was still conscious, and she struggled with him as he yelled in agony, not seeing her at all. He lashed out and caught her across the face and she dropped him and stumbled back. Antoinette wasn't about to give up so easily though, and she reached for him again. He wasn't himself, thrashing about as if in a nightmare, his eyes wild.

Erik was terrified, certain the horrifying notes would return to him, the haunted melody would once more torture his soul. He panicked and thrashed out at the arms that held him, and felt himself fall back into the water with a loud splash, but the arms came again and pulled him from the icy water. He felt his lungs pull in a huge gasp of air that it had been denied and his mind slowly relaxed. The melody was lost in his mind, though he knew that if he thought about it, it would return and he forced another and another to fill the dark space that had previously been filled with horror.

He felt himself dragged to the shore of the lake, the cold air freezing his skin. He was wet, cold. So cold... He shivered, his teeth chattering. He felt the arms tugging at him shiver too and as his mind slowly began to clear, his vision became clearer. Who was it? Who had saved him? Probably his life? He squinted at his saviour, suddenly feeling annoyed. How dare they! He was in no mood to... But they _did_ save his life. Would they have done it if he didn't wear his –

_His MASK! _

Erik's hand shot up to his face and Antoinette looked down at him. He was shaking violently, but his eyes no longer had the wild edge to them. She noticed for the first time that his face was uncovered – well of course it was, she had seen the mask, hadn't she? But she hadn't made the connection.

It looked worse than she remembered it, she was sure there were scratch marks down it – then she remembered the blood and her small gasp was almost audible. She saw him clutch at his face, seemingly in fear as he realised it was uncovered.

_His mask! He never went anywhere without it! What would the person think? Would they just throw him back into the freezing water? Was he strong enough to save himself if he was?_ Erik tried desperately to hide his disfigurement behind his large musician's hands as he clutched at the face that had deserved him a lifetime of misery. Who was it?

He pushed Antoinette back as she pulled him up the shore and stood on his own feet, swaying slightly, still dizzy from the lack of oxygen. He looked fearfully at his saviour, then noticed who it was. He breathed a huge sigh of relief, Antoinette! At least he knew she wouldn't throw him back, she was the one who had looked after him... the only one he could trust, even if she _did _go off and get married, it didn't seem she had told him about him – well he hadn't been hunted down yet.

He looked around wildly for his mask, spotting it at the edge of the water, he yanked it up and placed it immediately over his face, breathing a sigh of relief. Then the cold returned to him, and he stood, shivering on the shore of the huge lake, facing Antoinette, who was also shivering. He half smiled at her (well it was more of a grimace really).

"I suppose I should thank you." He said, and she relaxed, he was back to himself. "You aren't hurt, are you?" he asked, a little worried.

"No." She replied, "Just a little cold." _Now that was an understatement!_ Erik felt the cold seeping into his bones too, and suddenly his mind jumped into action – remembering what had been written in several medical books he had read. He ran from the room, returning quickly with an armful of thick clothes and blankets.

"Here." He said, offering them to her. "Go into the other room and put something dry on, then you can warm up in from of the fire." He knew they had to keep warm. "Otherwise, there's no end to the illness you could receive."

Antoinette left the room with the bundle and Erik also left the main room, and went into the room he sometimes used as his bedroom, when he didn't fall asleep simply from exhaustion in the pile of blankets next to the organ. He pulled out a set of dry clothes, and a couple of blankets. He rubbed himself dry using the blankets – making sure nobody could walk in. He then pulled on the dry clothes and wrapped the other blankets round himself, finding himself still shivering violently.

_Remind me never to do that again._

He re-entered the main room, where Antoinette stood, wearing a shirt and a pair of trousers. Erik grinned to himself, seeing her wearing man's clothes was comical – it did not seem she suited them well. She was too small for them, even though Erik had chosen a set that he had grown out of. She was still shivering slightly, but not as much as Erik was – he had been in the water a lot longer than she had, and he had immersed his entire body. The chills were still wracking his body and he could not for the life of him cease shivering. He knelt over the fireplace Antoinette had not noticed before and was eyeing with interest – he had carved the designs on it himself, and lit the flame. He sat back, waiting for it to heat up and looked up at Antoinette, still shivering.

"W-w-what are y-you d-d-doing d-down here any-anyway?" he asked with chattering teeth, wrapping his arms round himself. "W-why aren't you a-at r-rehearsals?" The fire was slowly getting warmer and Erik drew closer, his body yearning for the warmth.

"It was so odd this morning." Antoinette began, trying to remember why she had come in the first place. "It was so quiet, everyone just... _stopped._" Erik looked at her and frowned.

"W-what d-d-do you m-mean?" he asked her, his teeth dancing around.

"I'm not really sure. Nobody was singing, dancing, everyone was just _sitting_. And thinking." She shuddered. "The most terrible things went through my mind." She said, so quietly Erik had to lean forward to catch it. He looked at her sharply.

"You couldn't hear anything?" he asked quickly, the haunting melody threatening to take his mind again. She shook her head, and Erik rose from the floor, still shivering slightly.

"Erik, sit down!" Antoinette said sharply and he turned, a flash of anger crossing his expression, before he frowned and sat back by the fire. He had missed its heat. The wild expression in his eyes also appeared briefly, fear becoming the main emotion.

"It's all my fault." He said to himself, but Antoinette managed to catch it. She frowned at him.

"They couldn't even hear it and still..." he continued.

"_I am a monster!_" The outburst startled Antoinette, who jumped and reprimanded him.

"You're not a monster!" she told him, but he didn't seem to hear her.

_"So haunting. Evil. It will control me. I must not, I cannot..."_ He was beyond her, he could feel the melody, but he couldn't give in to it! He could not!

"_NO!_" He jumped up, knocking Antoinette back, but he was not himself, he couldn't see her, couldn't hear her.

He ran from the scene, over to the piano, where the sheets of paper lay everywhere. He dropped to his knees and grabbed as many as he could, ripping them into pieces, then grabbing another handful. The shivering seemed to have stopped, but Antoinette feared for his mind now, not his health. He ran back, chucking armfuls of paper into the fire, where they burned and crackled. Antoinette backed away from him, her eyes wide and fearful when he ran again, and grabbed another armful of the sheets.

Back and forth, back and forth.

He ran, never tiring, his eyes wide, his mind terrified.

He shoved the last handful into the fire and collapsed onto the floor, panting hard. He didn't seem to notice Antoinette's presence as his eyes drooped and his movements stilled.

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**how am i doing? Review, im begging you on my knees!!!**

**Oreal  
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	13. Chapter 13

**Hello! I am still alive! Im really sorry i havent updated for a few weeks, busy busy busy...**

**Anyway, here now! Enjoy!  
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**Chapter 13**

His eyes were heavy, so very heavy. He couldn't move his arms or legs. So tired, but unable to fall back into the black world he had just left. There were no dreams for once, just darkness – but it was the type where you sort of knew you were asleep, not that one minute you were going to sleep and the next it was time to wake up. He wouldn't have known how to describe it really, just that he was now awake... and he felt as if he hadn't slept in months. His eyelids so heavy he couldn't open them, unsure really what he was lying on. His whole body felt like it was on fire, his head was pounding and he couldn't remember how he had got here. He tried to open his eyes, so heavy...

He pulled his eyes open a crack, there was a light. Blinding, and he screwed his eyes closed again, his _head_! Pounding, agony... _Where am I?_ A foggy thought managed to form in his brain, _what happened?_ His heart was pounding, as if he had run a race, and yet could not recall why. _What's going on?_ He managed to open his eyes again, using all his energy and braced himself for the pounding headache that followed the light.

He was on the floor, the light was the fire. He was in his lair, but he was certain he had fallen asleep in his bed last night? Yes, after playing his new violin until his fingers bled. He heard an animalistic groan, and looked around in alarm – causing another groan to cut through the air. Wait, it was _him_ groaning, the pain in his head intensified, as he forced himself to sit up. He was so weak, his arms were trembling to try and hold his weight. He ignored the pounding as he forced himself to turn his head. It was so much effort and his arms collapsed, and his body fell back to the floor. Another groan, and he closed his eyes again. There was nothing out of place. He braced himself.

He turned over, so he was face down on the floor, his arms underneath his body. He pushed himself across the floor, using his feet and arms to the extent of their strength. It was so much effort, and he felt himself break out in a sweat. He cursed himself. _Weak, so weak. I said I would never be weak again. I won't, I WON'T!_ He pulled himself across the floor, using sheer willpower to keep him from passing out. The pain in his head was unbearable, his whole body was shaking from the effort to keep moving and there was a layer of sweat covering him. His breath was coming out in pants, so loud they echoed through the room. He heard his heart beating in his ears and a groan ring out so loudly he winced, and his arms collapsed under him again. Somewhere inside him he knew the sweat had caused his mask to slip off his face, but he couldn't bring himself to care as he fell into the darkness once again.

*****

Antoinette had run as soon as Erik had passed out. She fled the tunnels, back up to the life he could never have. The tears were crawling down her cheeks as she opened the gateway to her chambers. Her husband was not there, and for that she was glad. He would have asked awkward questions, he probably still would, and she couldn't take that right now. She stripped out of Erik's clothes and pulled a dress over her head. She was still shivering slightly, but she no longer felt cold, the run had done her good. No, she was shivering from fear, fear of the young boy she had rescued – who had turned into someone she didn't understand. She curled into a ball, still sobbing and sat in a corner of the room, trying to forget the nightmare that was only too real.

That was how her husband found her, curled in a ball, her sobs almost silent, muffled by her dress. Derek went over to her, and knelt down. She looked at him in shock when he put his arms round her, and shied away until she saw who it was. She then buried her face instead in his shoulder and resumed her sobbing. He only managed to get one sentence out of her.

"_It's all my fault."_

*****

Henri's body rocked side to side, his voice unknown to him crying out in the darkness. His mother stood over him, not knowing what to do. He never usually had nightmares, but this one was obviously terrible. She could hardly make out the words yelled out, and she was worried he would awaken the whole house with the terrible cries.

"No... Stop... _STOP IT!"_ came the yells. "Can't breathe... Dark..." His eyes snapped open, seeing something far away from the room he lay in. "Cold... Ice... Music..." The last one took her by surprise, as her son rolled off the slight mattress with a strangled yell. "_Erik..._" And suddenly his eyes focused on her face, he trembled and sat up suddenly, his body covered in a layer of sweat.

"Ow..." he mumbled, rubbing the back of his head. He looked around. "I fell out of bed?" he asked himself, curious. He looked up at her face, pale and trembling. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost." He shook his head and climbed back into bed, his dream forgotten – but only by him.

*****

Alone. That's how it always was. He was always on his own, having to fend for himself in the big bad world. He had always been alone, but he couldn't remember even feeling so lonely. There was no-one there for him, Antoinette had hidden from him ever since that night he couldn't remember, and Erik only found out she was pregnant from the gossip going round.

That had hurt. He wasn't quite sure _why_, but when he found out his so-called friend was with child, he had had to fight hard to stop the tears. But he wouldn't be weak, he _couldn't _be weak. He had to go on with his life, demanding his salary, his music there to protect him. He enjoyed watching the Operas, for a while he could forget his life, and the deep despair and depression that had sunk into him from when he was still only 15. He knew he had to go on, because then he had something to occupy his time, designing, painting, writing and playing music. He built structures for his home, put up curtains; anything to take his mind off the loneliness.

His nightmares had gotten worse; sometimes he even woke himself up with the sheer volume of the yells. He woke up most mornings covered in sweat, lying somewhere on the floor, horrible images swimming in his mind. At times like these, he played such terribly miserable tunes on the violin that he would often reduce himself to tears of self pity and loathing. Where had it all gone wrong? That day he couldn't remember? The day his father had sold him to the gypsies? Or was it the day he was born? All he knew was that he couldn't really remember a time he had been happy, really happy – and not because of someone's fear or because of music, but because he was with people he liked being with, and doing things he loved doing. He had seen it, in the Opera – people happy with each other, whilst all he had was his music.

Erik shook his head, thoughts like that would make him go mad. He pushed the boat through the water, his new white mask shining in the half-light. He stood tall, without a slouch and shook his long-ish hair out of his eyes, maybe it was time for another haircut... but no, he rather liked it long, covering the deformity that continued past his hairline, when he looked at his left profile, he could almost believe he looked normal. But he could barely stand his own reflection, and only took the covers off a mirror when he had to cut his hair or shave – he had only just started shaving at sixteen, but not very often, he had very little facial hair.

He had often gone up to the surface, his feet treading the now so familiar paths. He would find himself outside Antoinette's room, watching her sit on the bed, caressing her growing stomach. The baby was due any day now; Erik had discovered that when she had spoken about it to her husband. He seemed so happy, smiling whenever he saw her and laughing aloud when he felt the baby move inside her. Once upon a time, Antoinette would have come to _him_ – Erik – smiling at him. He could almost imagine what it would have felt like, to see her smile at him again. He wondered what it felt like, a baby moving under your hand. But, he grinned sadly, that would never happen to him.

She could no longer dance, she was simply too large, but she helped the old ballet instructor, she was really getting too old for that, and she would have loved to have retired by now. But there was nobody to take over her post. She enjoyed having Antoinette there to help out, even if she couldn't really do much more than sit there and watch, and perhaps demonstrate the arm positions. She always did get it faster than the rest.

Erik tended to spend his time grouching round the place, never cracking a smile, using his voice to scare people occasionally; just to prove to them he was still there. His heart wasn't in it though, what was the point? He sighed and moved past the manager's rooms. Everything seemed to be in order. The rehearsals seemed to be going slightly better, and they could do without his notes for one day. He shook his head, tiredly and made to go back downstairs to his instruments, he had bought a flute the other day, the old man seemed to be glad to see him for some reason... he couldn't fathom it.

He had begun to hang around outside the opera house once more, and Erik knew he had to get rid of him again; he was really getting tiring – if he _did_ find it amusing. He was even taller now, as if his body was trying to make up for the time with the gypsies when he wasn't allowed to grow because he was living in a cage, and curled into a ball most of the time. He began to shake, thinking about that time. The images from the previous night floated in front of his eyes, and he squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to think of other things – how the rehearsals were going, the music floating through the corridors, light and joyous. He shook off the melancholy thoughts and walked towards the entrance the old man would be waiting outside. That would take his mind off things.

This time he did not come out shyly and slowly, he strode out of the passage, his head held high. The old man grinned at him, but it quickly faded when Erik did not stop, he kept striding forwards, until he was face to face with the old man. The old man took several steps backwards, trembling slightly, his voice came out in a squeak.

"Hello." Erik paused for a second, frowning slightly, the man was not running in fear, he was – Erik laughed inside – he was trying to _stand up to him_. He shook his head disbelievingly and took a step back. Then he leant against the wall of the Opera house, casually. He wore black trousers, shoes, even a black cape hung over his shoulders. A white shirt was buttoned over his chest, and his white mask shone out in the daylight.

"What are you doing here _this_ time, old man?" he asked, a half-smirk on his face. The old man shrugged, _he should not be allowed to be so relaxed around me_ thought Erik,_ it doesn't quite give the right impression._ But he didn't say anything as the old man grinned at him again.

"I was wondering how you were." He said, his smile causing the wrinkles around his eyes to deepen. Erik sighed, disbelievingly.

"Why?" the question slipped out before he could catch it. He frowned, an image of a whip cracking onto his back showing behind his eyes. He shuddered and shook his head, trying to escape the depression.

The old man watched as Erik's threatening persona because somewhat like the young boy who had asked his ever so politely for an organ. He saw a flash of pain in the bright green eyes that were so captivating, and wondered what was going through his mind. He realised he had been asked a question, and frowned at it.

"Do you really think you're unworthy of people caring about your wellbeing?" he answered his question with another, causing the domineering man in front of him to frown. His answer was so quiet the old man almost missed it.

"Who could care for a monster?"

The old man went to argue when there was a noise round the corner and two men came round it, laughing their heads off. The old man froze, as they stopped in front of him – who would get drunk at this time of day? But they obviously _were_ drunk. He trembled slightly, as one stood right in his face, threateningly. He knew he wouldn't be able to protect himself if it came to a fight. He looked round quickly, but Erik seemed to have disappeared.

Erik watched from the shadows as the old man backed quickly away from the men, Erik could smell the alcohol on their breath from where he was standing. He hated people drinking heavily, he could never seem to get past one glass, when trying to forget things, it burned his throat and it tasted nasty – why would he cause himself more pain, when he had been already given a lifetime of it. He didn't like not being in control, as the men in front of him weren't.

He made his way behind them as the first one threw out his fist at the old man, who – weak – crumpled from the blow. He growled deep in his throat – the old man was completely innocent, he wouldn't hurt a fly, and the men were obviously arrogant and were throwing their lives away, their perfect lives he could never live. The first man who was not attacking the old man span round at the noise, and cowered at Erik's form looming over him. He didn't see the Phantom's lips move from under the half mask, but heard a voice whisper in his ear.

"Run." And he fled from the ghost-like man holding a rope in his right hand, leaving his friend to it.

Erik then came up behind the man oblivious to him, beating the old man who was only standing in the wrong place, and held the rope loosely in his hand. Moving silently, he came up behind the man who only knew he was there when the rope fell round his neck and cut off his windpipe. He struggled, but it didn't help. Erik heard the blood racing in his ears, as the man's struggles became less and less, until he moved no more. He then loosened the rope from his neck and looked at the weak old man lying on the floor, his face cut. He rolled his eyes, knowing he would regret his actions as he found a pulse in his battered neck. He sighed in relief, and lifted the old man easily, pressing the lever in the wall with his foot.

He couldn't leave him there...

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**Enjoy? Good? Bad? Improvements??? Any type of review is not only welcome, but cherished :)**

**Oreal**


	14. Chapter 14

**WOW it was a quick update this time! Proud of myself.**

**I had some things I needed to sort out, you'll find out what exactly when you read it :)  
**

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**Chapter 14**

Erik paced outside the room. He still wasn't sure what he was doing there, but once he heard the first yell from the rehearsal room, he had run towards it. And Derek still hadn't arrived.

Where _was _he? The blithering idiot! His wife was in there, and he hadn't even bothered to turn up. A messenger had been sent to his house over an hour ago. What could be keeping him? And so Antoinette was in there without anyone but the doctor, without the sound of pacing coming from outside the room – Erik's footsteps were silent.

Another strangled yell caused a couple of the ballerinas who were on a break to wince and cross their fingers in hope that their friend would recover.

The baby's first cry caused a sigh of relief to echo through the walls that had been waiting – everyone holding their breath for the yells to stop. Erik couldn't stop an _almost _smile appearing on his face, but it was quickly replaced by a frown – where was that idiot Derek? Didn't he know that the woman he had sworn to protect was waiting in anticipation for him to walk in with a huge smile on his face and to go up to the baby? She would be so upset.

He couldn't help it; he followed the passage he was standing in to the peep hole for Antoinette's room. She looked exhausted, her face grey with fatigue, and her eyelids at half-mast. However, there was a huge smile on her face as she cradled the small bundle in her arms. Erik spied a small amount of blonde on the head – her father's colour. It was so small! Erik stared at it, how could anything possibly be that small? He cocked his head to listen to the conversation going on inside the room.

"A girl." Antoinette was saying, her voice full of wonder and her face a huge smile. "A name... a name?" Her eyelids closed for a second, but she forced them back open. The nurse smiled at her, and took the baby.

"You rest now; your daughter is here right next to you. You must be exhausted." She had barely finished her sentence when Antoinette's eyes drooped and she was asleep. The baby girl yawned and also fell asleep. The nurse that was holding her cooed and 'Aww'ed before placing her very gently into the cot beside the mother. When she turned round, her smile was gone.

"Where is the child's father?" she demanded of the doctor. "Why is he not here?" Ah, so someone _had_ noticed then. There could be no excuse for not being there for Antoinette, she shouldn't be alone! On cue, a man rushed into the room, out of breath.

"Is that Antoinette Giry?" he asked, pointing at the sleeping mother. Erik's eyes shot to him, curiously. What could he want?

"Yes." Said the doctor. "She is very tired; I insist you do not disturb her. Any news you have can surely wait. The messenger shook his head, still panting.

"It's her husband." Erik saw the doctor's eyes widen.

"What about him?"

"There was... It was terrible!" he shook his head, trying to get the right words.

"He wasn't looking where he was going. A carriage accident mousier, I saw it all." Erik's breath froze. "He did not survive it. I was with him, he said one name before he died; 'Antoinette Giry' I knew I had to find this woman – I assure you I came as quick as I could." The nurse looked gobsmacked.

"I don't believe it!" she said quietly, looking into the cot. "A single mother, living in the Opera House, how is she to cope with her baby?" The messenger looked around suddenly, realising what was going on.

"She just had a baby?" he ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes wide. "Merde." He shook his head disbelievingly. "Good luck telling her." He said and shot off like a bullet from a gun. Erik stared after him for a minute before deciding to spare his life and looked back to the doctor and nurse, who looked scared out of their souls.

Erik wasn't looking forwards to the morning.

*****

The old man opened his eyes slowly; his head felt like it had been attacked by a thousand chainsaws and stuck back together. He stared at the ceiling for several minutes before concluding:

"I don't know where I am." He did not recognise this place, he was not in his home, he knew that much – and as he looked round, he couldn't recall ever being in a place quite like this one. The beauty of it was extreme, yet the mirrors were covered with dust sheets and it was so immaculate, that for a minute he doubted anyone could live there.

Then he saw the organ.

It was in the middle of a sort of clearing, in a circle of candles that looked strategically placed. There was written music strewn all over that area, as if someone had been writing and had thrown the music on the floor afterwards. He didn't realise that Erik lost himself when playing music, and scribbled on the sheets then to put them down anywhere, often knocking them off. The violin was in its case next to it, and he saw a clarinet on a stand not far off. There was also a flute case on a desk that was covered in small black booklets; one lay open, and the old man spied musical notes.

Who lived here? _(I know anyone would have figured it out by now, but he has been hit on the head several times)_

He was startled by a noise behind him and he span round, cricking his neck in the process. He watched as Erik came into view on the lake, poling his way through the water with expertise.

"Ah." Came the melodic voice floating across the waves, "About time you got up." The old man frowned. _He was outside the Opera... He spoke to Erik, and.... _he wracked his brains. _There were two men... drunk... and then pain.... the pain that now echoed in his head. Then... nothing._

"Where am I, Erik?" he called to the boy across the lake. The air was musty and he hadn't seen any windows. He was _sure_ he had seen a rat too, but he couldn't be certain about that. Erik smirked at his question and grated ashore. He placed the pole on the floor carefully, and straightened up to look up to the man standing by his organ.

"Welcome to my home." He said; an ironic smile on his face – did he ever genuinely smile? He placed his hands behind his back. "How are you feeling after your little tussle?" he asked, his visible eyebrow raised. The old man smiled at him.

"I feel terrible, thanks for asking." Did Erik just grin??? "I swear those guys had metal fists..." he moaned, rubbing his head, his eyes wide and innocent. Erik shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"Well once you aren't about to collapse again, I'll take you back..." he froze – how could he keep someone here with him against their will. He looked at the floor. "Actually, I think I'll take you back now. It'd be better away from me – here. He looked up again. "Are you up for a walk?"

The old man thought for a second.

"Do you not want me here?" he asked, knowing that wasn't the real reason. Erik frowned at him.

"Er."

"Because you know, Erik, I have no problems about staying here, if that's what you think." He had him. Erik frowned at him, and then turned away.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asked quietly, "I think I have something..." He looked up in time to see the old man nod, and follow him into the kitchen.

Erik went through the cupboards, muttering.

"Empty, empty, empty..." He shook his head. "Sorry." He looked hopefully at the old man, who was suddenly struck by how young he looked. He was only in his mid-teens and yet so much older than many old men. The old man smiled at him.

"It doesn't matter, does it? I'm not really hungry." He looked up and down Erik's thin figure, "Though you look like you need feeding up. Erik looked down, at himself.

"I'm not hungry. But you are." He added, upon hearing the old man's stomach rumble. The old man blushed scarlet. "I'll get some food." Erik told him, before turning on his heel, and seemingly walking into the wall, except the old man thought he saw him press into the rock before vanishing.

*****

Erik's deal with the shopkeepers was very cleaver. He would leave the money and a note, and they would leave the food in a small nook in the wall he had designed. Though, they didn't really have their work cut out, he didn't buy much food, often going without for many days.

He went back into the opera house passageways, feeling a lot more comfortable in the dark his eyes were more accustomed to, though he often enjoyed going out onto the roof of the opera at night to stare at the stars, as if they could take him away from the life he suffered day after day.

He passed through the passages, at one with the darkness, making as much sound as a moth fluttering through the air. He was about to descend down one passage, when he heard sobbing coming from one of the rooms down the other hallway. On impulse, he turned the other way and followed the noise. In no time, he stood outside Antoinette's room.

The doctor and nurse had both left, and she sat on her own in the corner of the room, cradling her baby to her chest. The tears were running down her cheeks, dripping onto her nightdress, and she didn't seem to notice. Erik leaned against the wall, pressing the knob to open the entrance. He placed the bags on the floor inside the passageway, and stepping into his old best friend's room.

"Annie?" he asked, using the name she had once bid him to use – it seemed appropriate. She didn't look up until he said it a second time, and stepped into her line of vision. She raised tear-filled eyes to him, and Erik could see her chest moving unevenly.

"Erik?" she asked, tentatively.

"Listen." He told her. "I don't know what it was I did to upset you. I just wanted to tell you it was unintentional." Where had that come from? He hadn't even _thought_ about talking to her. "I can't undo it of course, but I –" Antoinette shushed him.

"It's ok. I was emotional. I just..." Erik nodded.

"Looks like your emotional right now." He noted, and she gave him a watery smile.

"You know?" She asked, another few tears spilling over. He nodded, and she bowed her head again over her little girl, sobbing afresh.

Erik wasn't quite sure what made him do it, when he crossed the room to where she was sitting and knelt down in front of her. He brushed the tears from her face, and she looked back at him, sniffing. He sat down next to her, and she buried her head in his shoulder, her tears wetting his cloak.

"Thank you Erik." She said quietly, holding the small child close to her chest and sobbing into Erik's shoulder as he awkwardly stroked the back of her neck.

Sometimes, you just need a shoulder to cry on.

*****

The old man was getting impatient by the time Erik arrived with the food.

"Ah, you're back." He smiled at the 15year old as he came towards him, his expression sad, and his eyes downcast.

"Here." He gave the old man the bags, and went to walk away. The old man grabbed his arm, and Erik winced visibly.

"Aren't you going to eat too?" he asked, worriedly.

"I told you." Erik said shortly. "I'm not hungry.

And with that, he strode off into the other room, his shoulder still wet from Antoinette's tears.

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**REVIEW :D**

**Oreal  
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	15. Chapter 15

**Hey! I got a coupla really good reviews and a coupla free hours so i thought id update :) **

**Dont get used to it, you're getting spoiled ;)  
**

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**Chapter 15**

Erik hadn't slept for days, and still he fought the deep tiredness coming over his body. The old man still managed to weasel his way out of leaving, and who knows what he would think when Erik woke him in the night yelling out at old memories that refused to die. He couldn't even use music to take his mind of things at night, for the old man would awaken and hear the terribly sad melodies floating round in his head. Then of course, he would feel—

_I don't need his pity! I DON'T WANT PITY! _His thoughts yelled at him as his eyelids threatened to drop once more. The old man didn't know he spent his nights pacing the dark labyrinth, and his rooms fighting off the desire to curl into a ball and close his eyes... It was so tempting...

_NO!_ It was dangerous, he often threw his mask off in his nightmares. He couldn't! _Just for one minute..._

Erik paced another night away, up and down the dark corridors, his head falling to his chest every few steps before he snapped it back up again. Once, he even fell to his knees on the hard, rock floor before forcing himself to resume the pacing. He growled deep in the back of his throat, when he heard the first noises of the Opera waking, and went back to his rooms to see if the old man was awake yet.

He was facing away from him when Erik walked in, one hand resting on the organ, and he held a black book in one hand. With a jolt, Erik realised the book was one he had filled with music, and the one under his hand on the organ was almost full of sketches.

"How long have you been up?" he asked softly, causing the old man to jump and drop the black book. Erik lunged forwards and caught it at the last second, and frowned at the old man.

"A-about half an hour..." he muttered, breathing deeply, "My God, Erik, you almost gave me a heart attack!" Erik nodded slowly.

"Then perhaps you should go back to your home if I am such a threat to your health?" he asked, willing his eyes not to try closing again. The old man looked at him closely.

"Are you okay?" he asked, frowning. Erik swayed slightly on the spot.

"Yes, absolutely." He said, stubbornly, stifling a yawn. The old man frowned disbelievingly.

"When's the last time you slept?" he asked, his eyebrows raised, "There are huge bags under your eyes." Erik struggled for an answer.

"I slept last night, when you did." But his body betrayed him, and his head dropped for a second, his eyes closing for the duration. He snapped it back up, cursing himself, as he knew now there would be no persuading the old man. Sure enough, he was standing there, his arms crossed, a frown on his face.

"Why, Erik?" he asked, his face showing confusion.

"You don't understand." Erik told him, his fatigue showing in every syllable. His head dropped once more, and he knew he was going to lose this one.

"I'm sorry." He said, looking the man in the eye, "Stay away." He told him, his eyes pleading, as he gave into the darkness that had been trying to consume him for days.

_He was nowhere, living alone in the darkness all around him, until a sudden pain shot down his leg, he looked down, but saw nothing. He couldn't even see in front of his face with the eyes that were so trained. He began to panic, looking around as if there was a way out._

_DARK_

_DARK_

_Nothing but the all-consuming darkness. He called out, in hope that someone would pull him out of it, and heard his own voice bounce back. He went to stand up, but his body wouldn't obey him. He struggled, and yelled, but he could not move, not see, he could only hear his own voice, small and useless. He was pathetic. And suddenly he could hear his thoughts, in a different voice, shouting, louder and louder._

"_Useless!"_

"_Pathetic!"_

"_DEVIL'S CHILD!"_

_And the picture returned to his eyes slowly, painfully, until he saw his hands in front of his face, cut and bleeding. And they were small, so small, clutching at the straw under him. He felt his hands tighten, saw through the limited vision he had. A monkey, from under the straw, a cloth monkey, with two symbols in its hands. He held it to his chest and tried to ignore the pain he knew would come, it always came._

_But, no. He was suddenly clutching at marble, and his hands were larger, stronger. He skidded to his feet, but as it happened, he shrank, and the world was suddenly so much larger, through his small eyes. There was a tall man standing in front of him, his head shrouded in shadow. He realised what it meant, the belt held loosely in one hand and he backed away quickly, tripping over his own feet._

"_Look at him! So weak."_

"_Worthless!"_

"_Helpless!"_

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"_

The yell ripped from his throat as he shot up and backed away quickly, his hands over his ears, but the voices were still there. He shook his head, his wide eyes taking in none of his surroundings. He just wanted to get away from the voices. He pulled the evil mask from his face, the place where the horror was born. He curled into a ball as his back hit a wall, clawing at the evil face that had given him a lifetime of suffering.

"_Alone." He sobbed, "All alone. Forever." _His hands slowly stilled as he fell into a deeper sleep where there were no dreams. But the tears still stained his face, mingling with the blood.

*****

The old man watched in horror as the teenager collapsed from sheer exhaustion in front of him. What did he mean, stay away? He backed away slightly, giving the boy more room, and then turned to pick up a blanket from the corner of the room where there was a pile. As he went to walk away, there was a strangled yell from behind him, followed by a loud crash. He span quickly on his heel to see Erik thrashing around with his arms and legs, his yells echoing in the darkness.

"Dark. All dark, no way out." He was muttering quietly, then loud yells erupted through the room, and Erik's face was contorted in fear as he thrashed wildly. His head rocked from side to side so fast it have the old man a headache just from watching it. He kicked out wildly with one leg and flipped himself onto his stomach.

He saw Erik curl himself into a protective ball, seemingly around an object only he could see. He clutched at it, and was silent, eerily silent. Then suddenly, he pressed his hands against the floor, and his head cocked inquiringly, as if surprised to see something. Then he scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide and unseeing. He seemed to shrink inside his clothes as he looked upwards at another thing the old man couldn't see. He was taken by surprise when his host shot backwards, his eyes full of fear once more, his hands over his head.

Then the yells began again, mutterings and shouting mingling in with each other. He shook his head from side to side, his voice getting more and more hysterical before a phenomenal yell of 'NO' echoed through the cavernous room, and the old man backed away further when he saw him reach to his face, and pull the white mask the old man almost thought was part of his face until he saw what lay underneath it.

His hands flew to his face as he saw the criss-crossing scars that lined the right side of Erik's face. It was fiery red, enflamed, and the right eye was sunken into the skin. He eyed the horror of the boy's face, and realised with a jolt that this was why he wore the mask – to cover a deformity. It hadn't even occurred to him before, though he had contemplated the curious prop.

But the horror was nothing to what happened next, when the teen's hands flew to the deformity, for a second as if to protect it, and then suddenly the fingers turned into claws, and the old man saw he was trying to destroy it. The skin looked flimsy and thin, and his nails cut through it easily as if it were paper. The old man gagged, pressing his nails into the palms of his hands in wide-eyed terror. He watched as the dejected boy tore through the skin, causing blood to stream down his face, mingling with new tears as he began sobbing. The old man could just make out a few words,

"Alone." Said the sobbing boy, in a strangled, hoarse whisper. "All alone. _Forever._"

And as the movements stilled, the man understood, looking at the gruesome face, covered in blood. He understood the tall, strong boy was nothing like that underneath. He was scared, and lonely, and he hated his life, hated anything to do with himself. He didn't trust anyone, because that was how he had been taught.

Then he turned around and hobbled into the bathroom where he was promptly sick in the waste bucket. After that, he stumbled out of there, placed a blanket over the sleeping teen and went into another room to think.

*****

Erik woke slowly, his head pounding, his face aching and painful. He frowned, where was he? He looked around quickly, analysing the room. The old man was nowhere to be seen, and he had to say he felt refreshed. He silently spotted his mask lying on the floor, and registered the blanket covering his legs. He tentatively reached his hand to his bare face and traced a scar down his cheek. His face was slightly sticky and he couldn't help it as the tears brimmed over once more.

Alone. Always he was alone to struggle through. Forgotten by the world that cruelly brought him to life. In a cracked voice he began to sing.

_Child of the wilderness  
Born into emptiness  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn to find your way in darkness_

He unfolded his limbs from the floor and crossed the room slowly, the quiet words echoing in the silence.

_Who will be there for you  
Comfort and care for you  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn to be your one companion_

He lowered his hands into the cold lake and let them float there for a second, the music filling his empty soul.

_Never dreamed out in the world  
There are arms to hold you  
You've always known your heart was on its own_

He cupped his hands and lifted the water to his cut face, letting the icy feel of it run down his face, calmly.

_So laugh in your loneliness  
Child of the wilderness  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn how to love life that is lived alone_

He watched the blood float away into the water and reached behind him for his mask.

_Learn to be lonely_

He placed it over the deformity he hid from the world.

_Live can be lived_

He stood up.

_Life can be loved_

And turned to face another day, the phantom's persona shrouding his own.

_Alone._

The last tear fled leaked down his face, and he flicked it away. He would not be weak, he could not give in.

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**Song was learn to be lonely extra from phantom of the opera.**

**What do you think?**

**Oreal  
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	16. Chapter 16

**Hey guys! Anazingly, I am still around. I'm terribly sorry I havent updated for ages, but hopefully it will be faster next time, I have free time all of a sudden :)**

**Well here you go! Have fun and please REVIEW!  
**

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**Chapter 16**

The old man left eventually of course, Erik refused to give in to him staying much longer and managed to get him out of his house by promising to drop by the shop sometime. It was about time he got back anyway, the instruments would be covered in dust by the time he got there, and terribly out of tune. Erik had to show him the way out of course, dropping the old man off at the entrance they always met by and descending the passage once more on his own. The familiar darkness seemed to welcome him once more, and Erik was sort of glad for his usual solitude, he had not eaten round the old man, and had avoided sleep, worried that his nightmares would keep him up and turn him away – or make his huge eyes fill once more with the pity that seemed to slip out sometimes, no matter how hard the old man tried to hide it from him.

So Erik walked silently through the familiar darkness, his cat-like eyes piercing it like none other could, his sixteen-year old body tall and thin barely a shadow passing, unseen to the naked eye – was it real, or just a phantom? The inhabitants of the Opera House believe the latter, that he was a spectre living inside the walls, them not knowing about the catacombs that crossed over each other, deadly dangerous to get lost in, if not because you would never find your way out, but also because the Opera Ghost would not take kindly to your presence.

A tiny beam of light would drift across his midnight-clothing ever so often, passing one of his peep-holes or a mirror that would surround him in light – but the garish shine of it would get lost in his black clothing, seemingly shrinking away from him, and all the darkness he contained. He was a ghost in the black hallways, light touching him, but never reaching him. Straining out to hold him, but wincing back at the last moment, his darkness was so complete. So strange for such a young man, only sixteen years of age, yet his eyes and persona reflecting one so much older than the norm for his age, even in those times.

He reached the window he wished to stop at, glancing in at Antoinette smiling down at her child, whose blonde hair was already visible, reflecting that of her father's. The loud, light-hearted giggle of the child and the sight of it smiling up at its mother, in turn glancing down at her perfect child.

_Perfect._ Oh, how he despised the word, dirty and beautiful on the tongue. The reason why many were loved and he saw happiness almost every day of his life... but also the reason he was so alone, hiding in the darkness, away from civilisation's jeering eyes and taunting tongues, away from judging minds and _people_. People hated him, he knew that from experience, and in turn, he hated them back. Though, he knew, as he glanced at his reflection on the glassy lake he had reached, he deserved it.

_Monster._

_Devil's Child._

_Alone._

_Hated._

_Judged._

Erik shook his head from the melancholy thoughts threatening to drag him down, make him weak. He knew he could never be weak, with weakness came failure, and he couldn't bear any more of that.

He punted himself furiously across the lake, it took a lot of strength to do that – not weakness, you couldn't do that if you were _weak_! He pulled it ashore.

_Nobody cared!_

_Who could?_

_I am a monster!_

_What have I got to thank them for?_

_Why should I care?_

_Do I deserve to live?_

_Do they?_

_Why ---?_

Erik's temper flared and his roar echoed round the large space, returning back to him, seemingly louder, mocking him. Another roar ripped the air and Erik ran from the room, away from the music.

He entered the room he had designed as his bedroom, but be hardly ever slept here, besides sleeping very little in the first place, he still preferred to curl up in his blanket when exhausted from playing music all night, or simply collapsing on his organ, carefully of course. He stormed into the room and gazed at his belongings.

_Useless!_

His furious fist swept a black vase off a small table and it flew across the room, and with tremendous speed, smacked into the opposite wall and exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces. His anger relished in the loud sound, and the small shards lying on the floor. From that point, he was unstoppable.

*****

Erik knelt on the floor of his room, in front of the bed he'd barely slept in. His energy was heavily waning, and the room around him looked as if it had been hit directly by a bomb. There were no breakable objects still intact; the blanket was on the floor, the pillows randomly strewn across the room. Tables were on their sides, a couple missing legs, lying on the opposite end of the room.

His anger was spent. His eyes drooped, and the dark figure slumped onto the bed in front of him, face-first. He lay motionless, not a sound, not a whisper. If anybody had entered, they probably would have thought him dead, he was so still, his breathing silent, his chest rising and falling so slightly it was difficult to see.

Suddenly, the body shot upright, still on his knees, and the bright emerald eyes sparkled in the darkness, and a most terrible sound began to echo through the room. A steady crescendo, rising louder and louder until it was almost deafening. The sound was so evil grown men would have run from it.

A candle flickered and died.

It was the sound of laughter.

_Evil._

_Menacing._

_Spine-tingling._

_Terrible._

The Phantom was born.

Erik's body collapsed once more into the state of almost death – unmoving, no sound. It would be as if he hadn't moved if the evil haunting laugh wasn't still echoing round the large space outside.

*****

The Phantom watched the Opera House closely; his music still in his heart, but apart from that, it was empty. Cold as ice and desolate as the middle of the Dead Sea in a flat calm. Don't get too close, the ballet girls said, or he'll take you.

He left notes, more threatening each time, and Monsieur LeFevre (Junior) was getting more and more exhausted in the job. But he could not leave, this was where he got his income from, it would not be easy to gain a job elsewhere. He feared the ghost that came to haunt his chambers a few times a month, just to remind him not to slack.

The performances given by the Opera House were increasing in style and never ceased to amaze the crowd with their brilliance. The Phantom watched with a critical eye, occasionally losing himself in the music that he loved deeply. He often saw Madame Giry and her child, Meg they all called her, such a delight as she began to walk and talk. Her blonde hair grew long and straight down her back, and she could be a bit of a mischief sometimes. She moved with much grace and elegance that it was obvious she was to be an amazing dancer one day.

The Phantom had built a wall around his heart, made of immensely strong stuff that it was impenetrable. Antoinette was not allowed down to his lair any more, fearing the many traps he designed and created in his madness. She didn't know where they were, and woe-betide any poor soul who accidently wondered down there through one of the many entrances. Whenever she saw him, it was barely a swish of the cloak or a shadow in the darkness. He seemed so unfamiliar to her, as the small boy she had rescued. They had spoken face-to-face a couple of times since he had changed, and it was like talking to a different person. He addressed her formally and stood straight and proud, the small, beaten child never showing. Their conversations were short and to the point, and Antoinette could not say she had enjoyed them one bit.

The dark spectre haunting the Opera House was never referred to as a man for many years – he never really had been in the first place, but now he was nothing but ghost-like. All the children were warned of him, and Meg grew up afraid of the man that had once been a good friend of her mother's. She never strayed from her mother's side for many years, looking round corners first to check he wasn't there. And he never was.

Meg was five when she officially began to train as a ballerina, but she was practicing long before that. She was a delight to watch and Antoinette, at 23 seeming happier to watch and help than to dance. This was confirmed one week when she tripped on a misplaced prop and broke her ankle as she fell. It healed okay, but she was unable to dance on it – and took over her old dance teacher's role when she retired, when Antoinette was 24.

Meg was six and a blossoming ballerina when things began to change slightly. She was often upset about being the only one her age around, except when she went to her ballet classes – she had nobody to play with. This left her moping around after her mother, checking half-heartedly for the Phantom – almost wishing he would appear, just for something to do! But he never did.

It was a surprise one day when her mother got a letter and gave Meg a huge hug and told her to be careful, she would be back soon. The Phantom watched from the shadows, as confused as the small six-year old who would have preferred to have gone with her mother.

The Opera Ghost was doing a last check on the Opera House before leaving that night, when a banging noise echoed through the empty entrance hall. He frowned at the noise as a caretaker rushed out of the shadows and went back to unlock the doors he had just secured.

"I'm terribly sorry, but –" The man was cut off as Antoinette swept past him without a second glance and he was left grumbling to re-close the heavy doors and twist the lock closed once more. The Phantom was confused as to what was happening here, who was the small child whom Antoinette had grasped by the hand and who she pulled through the hall gently, as if to spur the girl on.

She said something The Phantom's ears strained to hear, but he only caught one word as the exhausted little girl with brown hair and sad eyes was taken out of the room to one of the bedrooms.

He caught one word.

_Christine._

_

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_**woop woop yep, that's right, she's here - finally. **

**So, what do you think? Erik finally lost it? Or is there hope ;)**

**REVIEW please xx**

**Oreal  
**


	17. Chapter 17

**Hey, sorry if this one isnt as good, i got writers block... most of the way through...**

**Any amazing ideas? gimme gimme gimme :)**

**anyways, enjoy...  
**

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**Chapter 17**

The small girl stared at her bedraggled reflection in the mirror. The light shone brightly in the deep darkness of the Opera House, she had been placed on her own for the night – not that she would have been able to sleep with other people in the room. He was gone. He had promised!

_Promised!_

Her tears made their individual tracks down her cheeks, crossing over one another, sparkling in the dull light from her bedside lamp. Her hair hung down her back, the curls unbrushed and wild. She didn't notice any of these things as she mourned her father, who had been taken so cruelly from her. She _longed_ for someone, anyone to take her deep depression from her, to give her back her father whom she loved with all her heart, and always would until her dying breath.

_He promised._

_Flashback_

_Christine sat by her father in the music room, the place where no dust was allowed to gather. The room that was always alive with sound. Her father's violin rang out clear and pure in the small room, her father himself standing there, swaying slightly in time to the music his fingers so magically pulled out of the instrument._

_Christine lost herself in the music, swaying in time with her father, letting it fill her completely in the way only her father's playing could. She forgot time, life, where and when, and just listened. She almost protested aloud when her father finished the last piece with a long drawn out vibrato, and she opened her eyes to see his warm smile filling her with happiness._

"_Why did you stop?" she asked, innocently, "It was very pretty." He grinned at her and put his violin back into the case._

"_Lunchtime." He said, placing his hands under her armpits and hoisting her into the air. She squealed in joy as he placed her once more on solid ground and she wrapped her arms round his legs._

"_How long will you play for me?" she asked, a smile on her face._

"_Forever and ever." Came the reply all dads give their children when they ask things like that._

"_Promise?" she asked._

"_Always."_

_End Flashback_

"Why did you have to leave me?" a small voice cried out in the room. "You promised."

And the tears no longer had individual tracks as they fell off her cheeks.

*****

The Phantom made his way through the corridors nobody sees, watching the Opera fall asleep, people either leaving to their own houses or apartments or sleeping in dormitories held in the Opera House. He had not seen the little girl from yesterday all day, yet his thoughts kept returning to her. Who was she? Why was she there? And why were her eyes so sad?

He wondered past the now empty corridors, just thinking. Lost in his thoughts, and a new melody running through his head, he did not notice where he was going, wandering aimlessly through the darkness which held him a willing hostage.

"_Why did you have to leave me?" _A small voice ripped him from his thoughts, he was leaning against a wall, contemplating something or other, when he was startled, the now not-so-silent darkness leaving him blinking for a second, until he walked round the corner and saw light entering his domain, _at this time?_

"_You promised!"_ Again, the small voice resounded through the emptiness of the halls only the Phantom knew his way through and he leaned forwards slightly, frowning as the light caused his pupils to shrink slightly, as they adjusted.

It was the small girl from the previous night, with the sad eyes. His own eyes widened as he took in the scene before him. The girl looked sad and unkempt. She was sitting up at the head of the large bed; hugging her knees to her as if they were a lifeline she had been thrown. Her brown eyes were wide and fearful, and the light washed over her in a way that seemed to elude the Phantom as he watched. Her cheeks were wet from tears, and she was trembling slightly, but not from the cold. The deep brown of her eyes drew him in, as another tear escaped and fled silently down her cheek after the others dropping one-by-one off her chin. Her curly hair was all over the place, it looked unruly and wild, sticking out at all angles.

"Father." Her quiet voice pleaded with nobody he could see. "Don't leave me all by myself." Another tear fled down her face. "If I cannot have you, then keep another promise." Her voice cracked slightly, from emotional pain.

"You promised me you would send the angel of music."

Erik cocked his head slightly, contemplating this child who pulled at the heart he thought was cold as ice, as dead as the love he had once harboured for life. _The Angel of music._

He had heard of the Angel of Music, but he knew, like almost everyone else, that there was really no such thing. Yet, this child seemed to have been 'promised' by her father, he thought of as dead, that the Angel would protect her.

If there was such a thing, it would not be a real thing – it would be your talents, not a tutor.

Yet...

The child didn't know that.

The music was calling him.

The deep brown eyes linked with his for a split second.

"_Christine."_ He called out, remembering the name he had overheard the other evening, and hoping with all his heart that this was the child's name. When she looked up fearfully, he smiled slightly to himself – it was.

"_Do not worry Christine." _He called out quietly, making it so his voice was right in her ear.

"_Your Angel of Music will not hurt you."_

Christine looked up quickly, her heart racing and her eyes wider (if possible) than they were previously. Her hope seemed to lift Erik's spirits, and he _almost_ smiled as he answered her excited whisper.

"_Yes, I am your Angel. But do not fret, little one. No harm will come to you, as I am your guardian." _His deep, tenor voice resonated magically through her head. _"Now Sleep. I will protect you, like your father asked me to."_ A small, sad smile graced her young features as his voice filled the room – not moving outside the walls, but for her, only for her. Hardly any other had ever heard his majestic voice grace their ears, and the small child knew it truly was an angel, for how could a mortal sing so beautifully? And her eyes drooped in time to the foreign melody that had suddenly filled his mind, and she fell silently onto the large bed.

Erik slid the mirror open ever so slowly, until he could fit through the small gap. He went over to the sleeping child and – making sure not to touch her – he pulled the quilt up to her neck and flicked the lamp off, his eyes easily adjusting to the darkness he lived in.

And as he re-closed the mirror and walked off, into the darkness.

*****

When he reached his lair by the large lake that glowed green in the half-light, he placed a score on the side of the organ and a quill into an ink pot. His writing was miniscule as he filled the piece of paper with quavers, crotchets and rests. The writing under the music was hard to read, but Erik was certain he would know the words for the rest of his life.

He spent the whole night working on the music and placing it gently into a new folder he had made the previous day, and wrote a title on both the music and the folder.

The music was called 'Christine's lullaby'.

The folder simply 'Christine'

And he played late into the night, and until the sun was high in the sky in the world above, and Erik finally drew the last note lovingly out of the instrument, leaving it echoing across the lake.

*****

When he returned to the above world that day, sitting down to the first rehearsal, he was in a good mood for one of the first times in his life... The day went gradually downhill.

The lead tenor was late to rehearsals.

The chorus was flat.

The ballet girls tripped up.

The band was out of time.

The backdrops were hauled and dropped at inaccurate times.

The manager was in a bad mood.

Carlotta claimed she was perfect and did not need rehearsals.

The cleaning ladies were too noisy and laughed too much.

He was getting a headache.

The tenor was flat.

The scene was boring.

The violin was screechy.

Meg grazed her knee and was crying.

The costumes were not straight.

A ballet dancer twisted her ankle.

The chorus were being idiots.

A sandbag fell and they blamed The Phantom.

The chorus girls screamed.

He couldn't take much more of this.

Meg was trying to sing and failing.

Antoinette was yelling.

The manager was stomping.

The band was out of time.

The note said:

_The rehearsal was an abomination, I trust it will not happen again, or you will have to be punished. I will not tolerate shoddy work. Band – work on timing. Tenor – TURN UP ON TIME, and work on tuning. Tell the chorus members not to be such idiots. Tell Madame Giry to sort out the ballet. Make sure your costumes are right _before_ you come onstage and for GOODNESS SAKE, don't do that again._

_O.G._

The Phantom left in a _very_ bad mood that evening.

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**So? whaddayathink???**

**feedback is good! both positive and negative, and any ideas you might have are welcome!**

**Thanks, i hope you liked it, sorry it's quite short.**

**Oreal  
**


	18. Chapter 18

**hey, everyone still with me.**

**IM SO SORRY! ITS BEEN SO LONG, but i was.....**

**ok, no excuse... sorry anyway here it is, sorry AGAIN, its not very long... i couldnt think of anything else to put  
**

**Dont own Phantom  
**

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**Chapter 18**

The night was like pitch – dark and deadly... for the moon hid from the world below, as if wishing to have no part in the following events.

The sound of footsteps echoed on the cobbles of the dark alleyway, uneven and stumbling. The man producing the noise not caring about the dark, his breath smelling strongly so it was detectable even metres away, trusting his instincts to know where he was going in his haze. His alcohol-fuzzed brain not registering the noise behind him until it was too late.

_Crack_

The Phantom's rope whizzed through the air, flicking round the neck of the drunken man stumbling home from the pub.

How he _hated_ him. His blood boiling as the rope was pulled tight and the man began to struggle.

His life was _perfect_, nothing to worry about.

He pulled the rope tighter, the man's airway blocked.

He had _friends_!

The man's struggles intensified.

He had a _family_... one that _cared!_

He began to slow, the phantom's breathing as hard as the man's heart was pumping.

It wasn't fair... Why should he be allowed to live?

The struggles stilled, but the rope didn't slacken.

* * *

The rope was pulled away, a layer of chafed skin flakes coming off as it was whipped through the air.

And the monster of a man responsible bled back into the darkness...

The ghost of a smile...

The evil grin...

Enough to turn the bravest away in fear...

His first proper kill...

And it felt so _good_...

*****

A flicker in the dark...

A candle light shining, shimmering, dancing. Playing with the shadows on the little girl's face, bent on both knees, eyes closed, eyelashes casting dancing shadows down her cheeks with the tears spilling beneath the eyelids. Hands pressed together in front of her chest, pictures of her father playing through her head, a hand twisting her heart beneath the ribcage.

The prayers stutter, as a word is caught in her throat. A deep breath preludes the attempt to continue, but they stop into one word.

"Why?" The voice comes to a stop, the muscles keeping her kneeling up weakening as she slumps to the ground.

And another voice takes pity and calls out.

A familiar voice...

The girl kneeling on the floor looks up, her eyes opening to reveal damp brown orbs filled with sorrow that eats into your soul, pulling you in.

"Angel?" And the entity hiding behind the wall feels his heart soar for the small figure looking so hopeful. He was that hope.

He didn't know what he was singing, but the music filled his soul and he did not deny it, filling the small face in front of him with peace. He could not hear the words he was singing, but he still sung them with all of him.

And she stood from the ground, his voice filling her body with strength. The music called to her soul, causing her to open her mouth and accompany him, the notes merging with his – a few odd notes hardly noticeable amongst the strong voice and the life behind the meaningless words tumbling from her mouth.

Erik's mouth hung open as her voice cleansed his soul like his did hers. She looked up, suddenly realising what she had done.

"Angel, I-" Erik's heart almost broke from the fear of rejection in her voice. He called to her.

"Christine." Her front teeth were worrying her lip between them as she looked up towards the sound of his voice... right into his eyes. She said nothing.

"Your voice is exquisite. Where were you taught?" His voice was dark and alluring, his tone filled with curiosity. She frowned.

"Daddy-" her voice caught and Erik regretted asking.

"Of course." He said quickly, covering up his mistake. "And he has left me to complete your training, turn you into a star." She smiled, her previous misery forgotten – and her smile almost coaxed one out of the man hiding from her.

"You will teach me?" Her voice was hopeful and Erik couldn't deny her or himself the pleasure it would bring them both.

"Of course." And the corner of his mouth pulled up at the look on her face. Just slightly...

"When can we start?"

*****

For once, the tune echoing through the deep cavern of Erik's home was not dark and full of deep depression, the _real_ angel upstairs having rid his mind of it for the time being... she _actually_ wanted to spend time with him!

His face was no longer frowning – and the tears he had forbidden himself to cry were not struggling to stay back. He felt...

Happy? Was this feeling happiness? This freedom, the light-hearted feeling keeping him buoyed up in the darkness he lived in – the small light sitting upstairs shining through his misery.

He had a reason to be.

And the tunes flowing from his fingers were duets

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**Review??? it wont take a second!**


	19. Chapter 19

**here you go, another chapter**

***i still own nothing*  
**

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**Chapter 19**

Christine couldn't keep her mind of the man she thought was an Angel sent from her father in heaven. She would have a connection to the man she loved so much, there was a hole residing inside her heart, ripping her apart whenever she was alone, away from her angel, that she had latched onto like a lifeline, to save her from the deep seas of depression.

She seemed older than her years, her eyes filled with sadness that seemed to add to her charm, everyone clamouring to comfort her, but there were only two times she could forget... when she was with her Angel and when she was asleep.

She had found a friend amongst the sea of adults, singing and dancing... Meg Giry, the ballet mistress' daughter, the only person around the same age. And she could forget for a moment that her father had left her alone, when her blonde friend was teaching her dance, and she would fall on the floor and they would laugh and dance around, forgetting the mistake like only children can... but the memories were never that far away.

But most of the time she was alone, sitting hunched in a corner of the chapel, the darkness pressing down on her. The solitary candle flickering, enhancing the shadows dancing round the little girl's head, her eyes closed, not taking in any of it, seeing instead different sights, of her father playing his violin, playing on the beach, no troubles to hold her back as she ran joyfully through the shallow waves, her feet getting wet, and the bottom of her skirts dampening... and her father, watching, laughing at her joy, then joining her, hoisting his trousers above his knees and frolicking.

She sat in the darkness, away from everyone, the happiness not causing her to smile, but it drew the tears from under her closed lashes, curving down her face, dripping off her chin onto her shaking chest. Her hair remained unbrushed, unless Antoinette managed to catch her before she disappeared off to where she didn't know... only Christine and the Angel knew where to find her.

And as she crouched in a corner, sobs wracking her body, she heard him... her angel come to save her from the darkness she didn't realise he was so familiar to, that she wasn't the only one latching onto someone, he grew to depend on her, needing the escape that came when he was with the small child.

He became her teacher, always beginning with scales, over the years the amount of notes in them changing as her range grew and her memories grew less vivid, but the feeling of misery never completely leaving her, but she escaped all that when she was singing her Angel's duets, spending hours on each song – he was never happy with anything less than perfect. And though she knew somewhere in the back of her mind that he could not possibly be an Angel sent from her father, she chose to ignore that voice, fearing that she would push him away if she decided to bring it up.

And Erik began to live for these lessons, coaxing new duets out of his piano every day, but only a select few of them making it into their lessons; he just loved imagining her singing to his playing... but all the while knowing that she would never be able to stand beside him as they sang, he would always have to be hidden, or she would flee and never return to him.

They both knew they could relate on some level, but there was always an underlying feeling that nothing could really work for an extended amount of time, because she would always leave eventually, to join the people in the light... she didn't belong with him, for he was a creature of darkness, and whenever these thoughts occurred to him, he fled the light, hiding away from the world, working on a piece of music that was horror and fear, and unworthiness and hatred at the world and loneliness... how could he ever even _begin_ to think he could possibly have something good in his life?

And the madness began, the infatuation with Miss Christine Daae, he would never be able to let her leave him, because she was what made him live, she was his life and she was his light in the darkness of his soul... and the light was growing until that momentous day when he realised he loved her... and he ran, into the darkness, the tears he had refused for so long escaping temporarily, _how could he believe he could do this? He would always be unworthy of a life in the light... _it was unfair, of course, but it was true... _but it felt so right!_ How could this be right?

"I am a _Monster_!" he shouted at the darkness, his voice echoing off the lake, and bouncing back to him. He sank to his knees, sobbing like he hadn't since he was a child, plagued by the nightmares that still returned to him more often than not. And a new tune issued from his mouth, reflecting the sadness in his soul

How I wish for a life  
Somebody who loves me  
I don't mind who  
But people take what they see

A monster in looks  
I could have had a good heart  
But it was turned to stone  
After it was torn apart

A voice from behind a wall  
A _Phantom_, a monster of fear  
An angel that is just a facade  
A man that nobody can hear

I don't understand why it chose me  
The devil that cursed my soul  
I just wish I could be free  
But I'm trapped in this hole

How I wish for a life  
Somebody who loves me  
I don't mind who  
But it can never be

_(Not a real song, written by me)_

And he wiped his tears from his face and pulled himself to his feet. It seemed that he was lost, but surely he deserved this one thing... however, seeing that he had no idea how to show love and care for another person... it went downhill from there.

So Erik made the rules that she was not allowed to date other people, using the excuse that she would lose lessons, and it would mean she was not committed to her voice, but it really meant that she would be free and he would have a chance if he was the only one who ever spent time with her – even if it was impossible that they could ever meet, he knew that even through his madness. He just knew that he would never be able to survive if she was with another.

And as Christine aged, she grew more beautiful, causing Erik to fall deeper in love with her, his 'house' showing how he adored beauty, and in his madness, he began to imagine things that he knew were impossible. Christine would love him, she _must_ love him. He spent hours and hours carving her bed, in the shape of a swan, every feather carved with painful delicacy, his talented fingers smoothing out the beauty of the bed.

He furnished her a bedroom, away from his own, where a coffin resided, his hope being that he already looked enough like a corpse, and that the bed may cause the devil to finally claim him and put him out of his misery. The music turned darker, and his temper turned evil. He killed people, and thought about it with no remorse shining in the depths of his deep green eyes. He _enjoyed_ the thrill of the chase, the feel of the life ebbing away under his fingers, the tight noose of his lasso.

He loved the sight of the eyes dulling and the feel of the breathing stilling, and the adrenaline rush of the possibility of being caught. He became even more feared in the Opera House, his reputation being one of bloodshed and horror. But sweet little Christine, going through her teenage years, didn't make the link between her beloved Angel, her tutor and her friend, and the Phantom that stuck fear into the hearts of all in the Opera House, his haunting voice echoing through the auditorium causing her to tremble like the rest of them.

The old man who used to run the music store passed away, with Erik barely noticing. His shop was left to another and there was no more misery left in the mad eyes of the Phantom, his thoughts only on Christine and the only thought that filtered through was that he would now have to intimidate the new owner.

The music he taught to Christine was not as light as it once was, his dark side filtering through to all aspects of his life, growing like a seed can blossom into a tree, filling him. His only escape was Christine, and even that was not complete any more.

And he began to work on a new Opera; _Don Juan Triumphant_. The underlying aura being that of pain, darkness and horror – he poured his soul into it and the music struck fear into those that couldn't even hear it.

Christine and Meg grew close; their friendship growing until the two troublemakers were inseparable and you barely saw one without the other. Their dancing improved so Antoinette was immensely proud of them both, contemplating entering them into the chorus as soon as possible. The two children thought of Antoinette as their mother and she loved them both as her own – along with another she loved as a child, but who didn't want to know, Erik hid from her and the rest of the world, feeling unwelcome and she regretted not introducing him to it as a child, but it was too late and he was now who he was – and she wasn't happy with that.

But there was no changing him.

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**So, what do you think? Sorry it's so short again, but i dont seem to be able to make the chapters any longer...  
**

**please review, it doesnt take 10 seconds! and it makes me happy XD**

**Oreal  
**


	20. Chapter 20

**Heya!**

**Yep, its another chapter, and it's a really sort one - IM SORRY! I CANT WRITE LONG CHAPTERS!!! - on another note, we've made it to 20 chapters!**

**sorry about this chapter, i dont really like it. I was asked for fluff and this is about the best i can do, and its really bad, sorry (and really not very fluffy)  
**

**still dont own Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Christine wandered down an empty corridor one evening, the half-light sending shadows spiralling around her as she walked, in a half dreamlike state that everyone has gotten used to by now. Her well-kept hair curled perfectly onto her shoulders, barely covered by the costume she was wearing as she left the first costumed practice of the new dance she had been practising with the ballet girls, Madame Giry – her surrogate mother – having suggested that her and Meg try and join in for this opera, and they were doing splendidly!

She had a soft smile lighting up her face as she floated down the corridor – she had just left doing something she loved – dancing – and she now had another thing she loved doing – a singing lesson.

As she walked, she seemed to feel eyes watching her, devouring her, but as she looked around, she saw nothing. But she knew there was someone watching her, even if they were not visible – her angel was always there to look after her. And it was his comforting gaze she felt boring into her, causing her smile to grow and a bounce to emerge in her light step. And there was a faint sound of singing in the background, causing her to tremble slightly – but not in a bad way...

She felt the barely audible song filter into her bones, and she forgot about her father – somehow it had stopped being about him. She loved forgetting, feeling safe, she loved the music and the feel of it washing over her, like the dark voice was right now, as her footsteps grew in speed and she almost tripped on the way down to the chapel, in her haste, an invisible face watching her the whole time.

She walked out to the middle of the room as the song swiftly and impeccably changed into another – this one she knew well and her high soprano voice joined his in the words, lifting high like her spirits. She twirled round the room in time to the music and the unseen man watched her dance, his heart soaring with hers up in the heavens, his voice being the only way to show and the happy song rose joyfully through the room.

There was no accompaniment, but they needed none as they sang without music, perfectly in tune, learning off each other's melodies as they sang the music they knew so well, and yet had never felt so intimately before, and the spectre hiding longed to join her spinning round the room, her singing screaming of laughter and joy, but he made do with a smile – lighting up his face, and making him seem younger. He imagined dancing with her, spiralling round with her... no worries in the world.

As the last note echoed through the room, the aura in the room darkened, even before the song changed, both knowing what would be coming next. There was a strict schedule, and this song was of a different mood. It is hard to smoothly run a song in a major key into one of a minor key smoothly, but Erik lived and breathed music, taking over and merging the songs perfectly so they were seamless. He picked up the melody, his voice lowering and slowing from the fast pace of the previous one to the adagio pace of this one.

He sang beautifully and Christine's feeling changed with the song, her heart immediately longing for this voice that sang to her, so beautifully and majestically. She stopped spinning immediately, her dancing skills causing her to do this perfectly, so it didn't seem like a sudden change, and she flowed into the song, her voice coming in with the accompanying part of the difficult song.

She had unknowingly stopped facing exactly the spot where Erik was standing so he could see every emotion running across her face, so beautiful and flawless as he sang to her. He lifted his arms out towards her, reaching for her, pressing his hand against the wall he was standing behind, memories filtering in of his nightmares, trapped away from the world – always behind the wall, always out of sight. He longed to be seen for who he was, but knew it was impossible.

The opera they were singing was a song of heartache, and unrequited love. Erik felt his voice crack in emotion, adding more depth to the music he felt so deeply, he could relate to so well. He pressed his palm against the wall, his fingers desperate to be given entry, knowing that if he twisted that knob _there_, he would be in, standing in front of her, his angel.

Christine closed her eyes for a second as she sang, the music no longer coming from all around like it normally seemed to, but in front of her, and she almost believed she could feel the voice standing in front of her, she found herself walking forwards.

_And if I had just one more chance  
And if I could just make you see  
I know I would not let you go  
I know I'd hold you here with me_

_It's where you belong  
It's where my heart lies  
I know I need you  
But I can't, my soul sighs_

She pressed her hand on the cold wall, almost feeling something behind it, she looked at it for a while, confused as to why she stood there, as their voices melded in the air, and she raised her eyes to the rock, seeming to look right through it, right into Erik's eyes as he stared transfixed, into her brown orbs, feeling everything wash away, all his troubles and his pain, all his memories of torture and hell and resentment. Because she could do that, with one look in her eyes, he was healed...

And he couldn't let that go.

He needed her.

He stared into her confused eyes, her subconscious wondering why she was pressing her hand against the rock, and staring at it as if it held all the answers. And she still stood there, as the song drew to a close and Erik stood there, watching her hand over his, through the wall that was only see-through on one side. He poured his soul into hers through that look – though she could not see it, it soothed his battered heart, which had begun beating for someone other than him now.

And it felt so right.

He closed his eyes, a tear escaping and running down his face, that he didn't bother wiping away as he sighed so loudly Christine almost heard it and the face that had been full of joy just a minute before was once again shrouded by sadness – he loved her, and he knew he could not cope to let her go... but he also knew he could not imprison her with him, keep a beauty like that away from the sunlight. He dropped his hand and turned away, Christine suddenly realising that she was pressing her palm against rock and lowering it too. She was the only one to speak.

"Tomorrow, my angel." She promised him, and he agreed

"Tomorrow." His voice almost cracked with emotion as he watched her walk away from him and leave the room, forgetting to light the candle for her father.

He smiled sadly, ironically and also turned and left, through his secret passages that suddenly seemed too narrow and too dark. He sat down with his back against a wall, emotions wracking his body. To feel such joy one minute and such misery the next, could only be achieved by music – the sound of the soul. He looked into the darkness, his green eyes glowing like a cat's and he thought.

_How can I let her go?_

And Christine paced the corridors, the light blinding her as she thought about the lesson that was so much more meaningful than all the others – in a way. And she smiled, knowing that if not her father, then someone was looking over her, and she felt safe.

_How could I let this go?_

_

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	21. Chapter 21

**hey, sorry, been a while again... **

**its a bit longer this time... enjoy!!!  
**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

The lights came up, Christine trembling behind the red curtain, nerves wracking her body. She went over the dances in her head, over and over, her eyes wide despite the lack of sleep she had had that night. Adrenaline was rushing through her veins, causing her to feel as high as the clouds as she stood in position.

She heard the chatter of the public behind the curtain, and her heart beat hard behind her ribcage. It was finally time, her first performance on this stage in front of a full theatre. She willed her breathing to calm and her shaking to still as the curtain opened and the music began. She felt the music seep into her bones, and her heart slowed slightly, keeping the beat. She lost herself in the dance, left, right... the routine calming her and the belief she knew what she was doing causing her smile to brighten the stage.

She was partnered up with Meg for a small amount of the dance, and she saw an identical smile on her friend's face as she danced naturally and calmly – though they had both been panicking the night before. Her blonde hair was styled on top of her head, like Christine's brown locks, and it looked beautiful when the light shone on it – causing it to look golden.

And then she was gone, to another part of the dance, and the second of eye contact was quickly forgotten as they both strained to complete the correct movements, while remaining calm and happy.

Carlotta's clear voice, past its prime, but still a pleasure to behold... most of the time, rang through the auditorium. Her large ego was obvious in the way she held herself, as more important than anyone either on stage or in the audience. She strutted round the stage, singing the right words, but getting in the way of the chorus girls, so Christine had to improvise a couple of times to get out of her way – and then continue. But she was used to that, because she had walked a different path through them every time they had practised it.

As the first scene came to a close, Christine and Meg floated offstage with the rest of the chorus girls and as soon as they were out of sight, looked at each other with huge grins. The full auditorium had set off the adrenaline pumping in their veins and there was no going back now – they were in the business.

Erik sat in his customary box – Box 5 – and watched the opening night of the Opera. Christine had been talking about it, and her voice had shaken yesterday with nerves when they attempted a lesson (it didn't work out in the end). He had been unable to tell her off about the state of her voice when he saw her brown orbs glistening with nerves and excitement, but he called off the lesson, and they just talked.

Now, as he sat, looking down at the stage, watching her loose herself in the music and float round the stage, he felt a surge of pride and found himself smiling once more, something he'd seemed to do a lot more since the small girl had walked in those doors. She seemed as much a professional as the girls round her, who had more experience. She was more passionate – by far, and he found himself lost in the movements... until Carlotta started the chorus, and he winced as she hit a flat note.

As the play progressed, Erik forgot about staying hidden – as the Opera Ghost, he was supposed to be invisible. But he sat forwards, watching the stage with intent eyes, a black shadow seen occasionally when a chorus girl looked up.

He didn't notice her pale.

His angel is all that he sees, her body swaying in time to the music, a tendril of her hair escaping from its style as she follows the steps to the exact place – except for when he curses Carlotta for getting in the way of her perfectly smooth rendition. He sighed inaudibly when she left the stage, and found himself smiling as she re-entered.

Unknown by him, the Phantom of the Opera was being watched...

Antoinette Giry knew he sat in that box, but she had never seen him in it before. A black shape was all she saw, but it was enough to know that he had let his guard down for some reason, and she couldn't fathom it at first... until she remembered catching Christine singing in an empty room. The child hadn't seen her there, and she had wondered what was happening – and how she could suddenly sing immensely better than when she had arrived... she could have sworn she'd heard another voice, but had put it aside as a figment of her imagination... and now she put two and two together...

And frowned.

*****

Erik smiled as the opera reached its finale, and wrote the last note (it wouldn't do to shirk his duties now, would it?). He then clapped along with the rest of the crowd, something he rarely did, and rose from his seat, just now feeling the prickling on the back of your neck you get when you're being watched. His eyes snapped to the crowd, easily picking out the person who wasn't looking at the stage.

Antoinette Giry.

Their eyes met over the distance, and Erik noted the hostility in that glance, his defences immediately snapped up – he had forgotten himself, in his watching of the Opera, he had let himself be seen. His cape swirled as he fled from the box, to contemplate his new laxity. He frowned as he re-entered his dark world, his mind full of thoughts.

His feet made no noise as he passed through the passageways that he thought of as home – the only place he had ever felt the slightest bit safe. He was strong, he was powerful.

He fingered the rope his always held at his belt, in case of any necessary violence. His coarse fingers ran over the natural bumps in the strong material, reassuring him.

_I am strong._

_I am in charge._

_I am NOT weak._

_I can beat anyone and anything._

His worried look turned more comfortable, his eyes accustomed to the darkness at a speed that only years of living in it could achieve. He was the one in charge, and he would NOT feel weakness.

That was the only thought that kept him going nowadays, or rather, before Christine.

Her worming her way into his heart was gradual, and he didn't even notice it... until it was too late, and there was no going back.

Was it weakness to fall in love?

*****

Antoinette Giry was nervous.

She knew Erik. Probably better than anyone else.

But...

And there is always a but...

She knew him, which meant she knew his temper... and knew his feelings, and knew his habits... well some of them anyway...

And she also knew Christine.

And she knew that she was young, impressionable.

_Had he already made an impression?_

She knew that Erik and Christine were like... like Hot and Cold.

Day and Night.

Right and Wrong.

They are drawn to each other, perhaps through their mutual love for music... but it would never be enough, and it could never work out. Because day and night are too different. Like Light and Dark – Christine lived in the light. Erik lived in the dark.

That was enough to know it couldn't work.

Christine couldn't live in his world. She needed friends and family and light and the stage – it was in her blood – and he would never be enough.

So that's why she was creeping down the dark, stingy passageway that led to the lake. And then she would go through the passage to Erik's home, even if she was wrong.

Because she cared too much... about both of them.

And she knew it would break both of their hearts if this continued. At this stage it was impossible to tell who would hurt more. Christine had a good heart, and she could help, and she could stay. But she would never be happy in the dark, and it would break her heart... and knowing Erik, that would in turn cause his to break.

Then there was Erik. So complex, yet so simple.

His childhood was troubled, that much was obvious, even if all she knew was the little boy she had seen in the cage, his eyes like wells, deep and never-escaping... but full of darkness.

And fear.

His parents didn't seem to be the loving kind. She had heard him yell from the other side of the lake, when she had used to come down here ever so often. But the nightmares had softened, as his subconscious worked to rid him of his fears... to lock out the hateful memories.

And she so wanted to help him.

He would latch onto anything that would love him, like he had once latched onto her. But she had not been there. If she had, perhaps things would have been different. But they weren't, and he had turned to Christine.

But he also had an explosive temper, and that could be dangerous, for Christine. She wasn't strong enough to cope with him, and he didn't realise that. She would be scared. And if she left, then Erik would be shattered. Again.

So she stared out across the lake, and heard the notes of a song drift across, played on the violin. The music brought tears to her eyes as she felt it dance around her. She pressed the knob in the wall and entered the tunnel.

*****

Erik was lost in his playing when he heard the alarm. Someone was coming along his tunnel. He had managed to tune the alarms into his ears when he was playing, when he was lost to the world, they would manage to throw him into it.

He lowered the instrument into the case, and turned to meet his visitor, his hand going immediately to the rope on his belt.

He saw Antoinette enter, and his hand relaxed.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his pack straight, his eyes cold.

But there was a slight wish in them that things had happened differently.

*****

Antoinette looked round Erik's house. She saw the pile of music on the organ, her keen eyes reading the name 'Christine' on the black cover. Her fears were confirmed and she faced Erik. Not to hurt. Not to harm, but to try and help. To save him.

She took a deep breath.

"I know about Christine." She told him, getting straight to the point. His eyebrows raised, and he cocked his head.

"You know I have been teaching her." He asked, "Well that's a bit slow, I must say, Antoinette, I have been teaching her for many years now." Antoinette's eyes widened, but she did not let her shock show any other way.

"And how do you feel about her?" she demanded, nowhere near him in height, but her stance was commanding, and her eyes fiery.

Erik drew himself up straight.

"What's it to you?" he asked, but his heart was racing. He hadn't let it show? That could be disastrous. He took a deep breath, to repeat his demand

"I _said-_" he began, but Antoinette interrupted him

"I heard what you said." She told him "And surely you know everything that happens in this place." Her tone was icy. "And you should know I care about her as my own child. And I will protect her from anything."

Erik's eyes flashed "Are you saying I'm a _threat_?!" His voice had risen to a forte.

Antoinette took a step forwards.

"Erik!" she matched his tone. "You _know_ I care about you, but I know you."

Erik interrupted "are you threatening me?" he asked her.

Antoinette shook her head, and ploughed on "And I know Christine."

Erik took a step forward also, bringing them face to face.

"And?" he demanded softly, his visible face as masklike as the white alabaster that covered a third of it. His voice was quiet and threatening, and Antoinette found herself taking a step back. She turned her face, and walked away a few steps, and ran her fingers through her hair. She turned to face him, a pained expression on her face.

"Erik, _please_!" she begged, "It would never work! You and her." She wasn't looking him in the eye anymore, but had started pacing back and forth, waving her arms.

"You're complete opposites, you could never make her live in a place such as this" she threw her arms around, showing the room. "You live in darkness, and she is a creature of light."

She looked him in the eyes then, and immediately wished she hadn't. There was a smouldering fire there, and she paused in her rant, her own eyes widening. Her mouth opened several times, no sound emitting from it. She shook her head.

"You're too old for her." She said. "she's young enough to be your daughter."

She chanced another look at him, and realised it for the first time. It wasn't the scared little boy she had rescued from the cage of the gypsies standing before her. It wasn't Erik.

It was the Phantom. And he was _mad_.

"You _dare_ to tell me how to live my life?" his voice was quiet demanding, but as he continued, it quickly grew in a crescendo.

"What do I owe you?" he demanded, his eyes blazing in a cold fire.

"You took me here! I could have gone anywhere, but you take me from one prison to the next. My whole life is darkness, and I have to live with it, because you saw what happens when I try and live in the light. I am caged up, like an animal." His eyes were full of denial.

"And you're _wrong_ about Christine!" he told her, and for a second, Antoinette thought she had assumed wrong.

"I would _never_ submit someone to be with someone like me!" he ranted "To be with someone like THIS!" and he threw his mask off, with such force that it snapped into two pieces where it hit the floor.

Antoinette found she was unafraid of the face, of the deformity she had never hated him for... it was the madness and hatred in his eyes that caused her blood to run cold.

"I would give her everything!" He screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, "Like I have been given NOTHING!" his eyes seemed to well with tears, but it must have been a trick of the light, because the next time Antoinette saw them, they were dry as a bone.

"All my life, _nothing._" He spoke carefully. "And I do one thing that is human... I fall in love." His voice was calm, but his temper was not, his eyes telling her all she needed to know.

"And you want to take that away from me." His tone was so cold, it gave her shivers, and her voice shook.

"It would just break both of you." She insisted, but he was having none of it.

"Everyone!" he screamed, "_Everyone_ is against me!" he looked hurt, and angry and terribly, terribly mad... she looked at the floor, then back up at him.

He shook with repressed hatred, rage. He had his back turned to her, his head bowed, his fists trembling. His next words were quiet, but were like ice, and fire.

"Go." He whispered, and Antoinette took a step back.

"Erik."

"_**GO!"**_ he roared, "before I do something we'll both regret." His hand was on his noose.

And Antoinette fled.

Erik watched her go, finally taking a shuddering breath as she left his sight.

His cape swished as he left the dark cavern he called home, and went out into the world.

His hands continued to shake with anger until he felt the unsuspecting victim still under his hands, their eyes wide and empty, where they were so full of fear a moment before.

And The Phantom felt powerful.

And strong.

And Antoinette walked around still, worried about the ones she loved.

_I'm in charge._

_I will not be weak._

_I am the Phantom._

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**Oreal  
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	22. Chapter 22

**okay, this ones a lot faster, and not quite as long...(thanks to FallenStar22 for helping me out with editing this chapter)  
**

****I DONT OWN POTO****

**Warning: Self-harm. if this upsets you, dont read past the bold lines of the song. or avoid this chapter.  
**

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**Chapter 22**

_Christine walked along the beach, her hair blowing in the wind, a smile on her face._

_A little boy, about her age, walked up to her, smiling._

"_Hello." He said, and Christine jumped, her father's voice echoing through her head._

"_**Never talk to strangers."**_

_And so she smiled and nodded at the boy, but didn't say anything. He didn't seem to get the message though, and his bright smile continued shining._

"_My name's Raoul." He announced, boldly. "What's yours?"_

_Now, Christine knew she wasn't supposed to talk to strangers, but she realised she would have to answer the question. She answered with the first name that came into her head, the name of her friend from her old school._

"_Lottie." She told him, and he grinned at her._

"_I'm going to call you Little Lottie." He decided and began to walk off. Christine found herself smiling as she continued on her way, her strange little encounter causing her to forget to hold her scarf tightly, making the wind pick it up in the air, and toss it into the sea. She gave out a small wail._

"_Oh No!" And as she looked, the boy-a-little-older-than-her ran past her into the tossing waves._

"_Raoul!" she called after him, but he was already plunging into the waves to collect her scarf – which hadn't actually gone that far out – and brought it back to her, sopping wet and laughing._

"_My hero." Christine told him as she gripped her wet scarf tightly in her hands._

"_Of course, Little Lottie." Raoul answered, and Christine bit her lip._

"_I'm afraid I haven't been totally honest with you." She told him. "My name's actually Christine. I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, so I wasn't sure I should tell you my name."_

_Raoul laughed and shook his head like a dog, causing water droplets to spray off in all directions._

"_Well then, It's going to have to be my nickname for you, won't it?" Raoul asked happily, then ran off, calling over his shoulder_

"_See you around, Little Lottie."_

_*****_

_Erik brought his shaking fingers from the keys at last – the blood he had caused from the earlier nightmare dried on his mask-free face. He looked around, his body pale and sweaty like it had been after the dream – the music... He could play no longer and stumbled away from the organ so fast he fell off the stool. He backed away, fearful, until the palm of his hand found the cold water of the lake. He froze, leapt to his feet, span and ran into the freezing water. _

_His trousers were soon soaked, but Erik didn't notice, the notes still in his mind. The terrible chords, the horrifying music flooding his soul. He threw his whole body into the water, the cold shocking the breath out of him. The music almost shocked from his mind, the intensity of it vanishing in his fear. _

_The dried blood washed off his deformed face as his body floated under the ice-cold water, his eyes wide with an intense fear that had almost consumed him. If he had stayed at the organ much longer... he shuddered to think of it. But the cold of the underground lake had shocked the music from him. He lay under the water, a strange feeling coursing through his veins, terrified to emerge from the cold – the notes may return to him, their intensity so strong they would once again consume him. He thought desperately of the usual classical music he played, Mozart, Beethoven, Handel... Anything. _

_His throat began to throb in the need for air, his heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the sound of the horrible music that had consumed him._

_Drowning it out._

_Drowning it o_

_Drowning it_

_Drowning_

_Drow_

The echoes of the screaming slowly died away as Erik lay panting for breath in the 'bed' he now slept in. The nightmares were less frequent, but still enough to keep him from sleeping as much as possible... last night, he'd been so tired after the adrenaline that he had retreated to his uncomfortable chambers to sleep.

And the nightmares had begun.

But he could deal with them better now, so he closed his eyes and caused Christine's face to fill his vision, causing his panting to calm, and him to sit up and see how he could untangle himself from the sheets.

The notes were still echoing through his head though... and they were not altogether pleasant.

He tore himself from the tangled sheets and staggered into the main chamber – it was fine to walk around in his home, because he was always alone, nobody to repulse. He ran his fingers through his thin hair, he never wore the wig down here – it was terribly itchy.

He saw his mask lying on the floor, cracked in two, and he sighed, leaning against a wall.

He pushed away the tears that threatened to overwhelm, and ran his long fingers once more through his hair.

**(It's a sin – Pet Shop Boys, slightly altered)**

_When I look back upon my life  
It's always with a sense of shame  
I've always been the one to blame_

Erik finally allowed the tears that he had been holding back for so long to drop, in memory of the poor child in the gypsy cage, the one that hid from his parents because he was too scared to face their criticism.

_For everything I long to do  
No matter when or where or who  
Has one thing in common too_

_I'm a, I'm a, I'm a, I'm a sin  
I'm a __**sin**_

He sunk down the wall, misery overwhelming. The vision of Christine was no longer soothing, but rather mocking... how could he make her stay with a monster?

_Everything I've ever done  
Everything I ever do  
Everyplace I've ever been  
Everywhere I'm going to  
I'm a __**sin**_

He spat the words so angrily, not directed at anyone else, but rather himself. He was the evil here.

He looked at his hands, the ones that had killed a man last night... what had the man done? Just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And what about Christine, what had she done to deserve his love... not a blessing, a curse.

_At school they taught her how to be  
So pure of thought and word and deed  
For me they didn't quite succeed._

He clenched his hands so tightly his nails drew blood where they pierced his glared at his hands... his instruments of death.

_For everything I long to do__**  
**__No matter when or where or who  
Has one thing in common too_

_I'm a, I'm a, I'm a, I'm a sin  
I'm a __**sin**_

He looked out across the lake, the water not so inviting after his nightmare. He found himself shying away from it, feeling like the vulnerable child he used to be... and still was, in a way.

_Everything I've ever done  
Everything I ever do  
Everyplace I've ever been  
Everywhere I'm going to  
I'm a __**sin**_

He thought about the argument he'd had with the girl who had rescued him, who had cared for him. He had shouted at her, he could have _killed_ her if he hadn't had a rational thought at the right time.

_Annie forgive me  
I tried to do it  
Turn over a new leaf  
But I saw right through it  
Whatever you've shown me  
I do believe it  
My friend you were good to me  
And I do care and I really understand_

Erik did understand why she had confronted him. Why wouldn't she? He knew he was dangerous, he knew he was deadly... how could she leave Christine to that? To him? She was kind hearted, and caring, and he had thrown it back in her face...

But he couldn't give up Christine, even though he knew it was wrong... he just _couldn't!_ He sang the next part bitterly.

_When I look back upon my life  
It's always with a sense of shame  
I've always been the one to blame_

The laughing from the crowds from so long ago echoed through his head. He shook his head, but the laughing just grew in volume.

_For everything I long to do  
No matter when or where or who  
Has one thing in common too_

He raised himself to his feet, the meaning of the song pounding through his skull.

It was his fault, everything...

_I'm a, I'm a, I'm a, I'm a sin  
I'm a __**sin**_

He picked up one half of his mask, the edge sharp. His eyes glittered.

_**Everything I've ever done**_

He raised it, the light shining off the white.

_**Everything I ever do**_

He took a deep breath

_**Everyplace I've ever been**_

He tested the edge on his finger, a well of blood fell to the floor.

_**Everywhere I'm going to**_

He moved it to his wrist, closing his eyes and yelling out the last line of it echoed.

_**I'M A SIN**_

He pulled the white along his wrist, yelling out and sinking to his knees as he felt it rip easily through the skin. He stayed there, kneeling for a while, revelling in the feel of the pain, watching the redness of the blood ooze out of his veins to leak over the white mask, staining it forever.

He breathed hard for a while, then brought it again to the other wrist, slashing it with such force that the blood sprayed onto his clothes.

And he laughed.

His eyes glittered with misery and madness and exhilaration.

He could feel his blood leave his body.

It meant he was human.

And alive...

_But not for much longer._

His eyes narrowed, and he ripped his shirt open with extreme violence.

He brought the sharp edge to his chest and slashed himself open, crying out in the pain and the fear and the _feel_ of it.

His body, already riddled with scars from his childhood – first the belt from his father... then the whip from the gypsies.

Well now it was his turn.

He reopened old wounds, created new ones and exhilarated in it. His eyes were black chasms, wide and deadly, his pupils were wide and his chest heaved.

The white mask was completely red. Both halves of it, because the blood had spilled out over the floor.

"No more!" He shouted out, and the phrase echoed out across the lake.

"**NO MORE NIGHTMARES!" **he screamed, slashing himself once more across the chest, and he hunched over, having lost a lot of blood. His head began to swim.

"no more." he sobbed, and brought the mask up to his neck.

Then the darkness took him, causing him to slump, the red mask rolling out of reach.

**

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**so??? review??? please???**

**pretty please???**

**oh and im on holiday until monday, so no more chapters at least until then, im half way through the next one...  
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	23. Chapter 23

**Hey. I would have uploaded this sooner, but I was kinda stranded in Dubai coz of the volcano in Iceland (where I actually came up wiv LOADS of ideas, check out the end of this chap, lol) THEN i went on my silver DofE practise, and got lost in the forest... at night (not much fun, I assure you, much MUCH colder than Dubai) and this week i have LOADS of mocks for my GCSE's... its only coz i only got Spanish tomorrow that I had time to finish this!**

**Anyway, enjoy, and i hope to update quicker next time (or perhaps have a slightly less hectic few weeks) oh, and DONT FORGET TO REVIEW!!!  
**

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**Chapter 23**

His head was pounding, so much he scrunched his eyes closed as tightly as possible, but this only made it worse. He became slowly aware of his surroundings; he was lying on his front, having pitched forwards. His left arm was caught uncomfortably underneath his chest, his wrist bent round at an awkward angle.

His body felt like it was on fire.

A moan resonated through him, as he felt the cuts on his chest protest against the slightest movement. He tried to free his arm, but it seemed stuck where it was.

His energy levels were low; he'd lost a lot of blood.

And still alone.

He sighed, scrunching his eyes shut once more, he used all his energy to roll onto his back, crying out as he did so, the sound almost causing _him_ to wince at the painful tone.

His left arm was still cradled to his chest, and he stretched it out, yelling out as he ripped open a scab that had started healing over a gash and his arm. He felt tears sear like drops of fire behind his eyelids, and he didn't have the energy to hold them back, the pain ripping through him.

The cries had intensified his headache, and he turned his right hand into a fist to try and work himself through the pain. He groaned this time, trying not to enflame his head any more than it already was.

A rational thought filtered into his mind, _I'm lying in something sticky_. He realised, and it didn't take the genius he was to register that it was his own blood, the metallic smell having wormed its way into his nostrils.

He cracked his eyes open a fraction, and called out again, slamming them shut as the dim light seared his bloodshot eyeballs, intensifying his headache a hundredfold.

He left himself lying flat on his back, his eyes scrunched closed, tears leaking out and leaving clear tracks down his bloody face. His clothes hung off him, his shirt ripped open, fresh cuts littering his skin, crisscrossing down his chest and up his arms. His sleeves were pulled up, giving anyone who would care to look the view of slashed wrists.

His body shuddered in sobs of pain, which he was unable to still, yet which attacked his headache with every breath. His nails clawed at the bloody floor, as if he was trying to escape from the pain.

Christine stood in the chapel, alone. She lit the customary candle for her father, and then called out for her angel. That was strange in itself, because he was usually the one that made first contact. But not this time.

"Angel?" she tried calling out, a smile gracing her features from the adrenaline she still held from the opera they had put on. She wanted to hear that he had watched, ask what he had thought.

But there was no reply.

Christine finally gave up and left the chapel, biting her lip and feeling upset. Her angel hadn't ever not been there before!

She talked to Meg as usual, smiling and laughing in all the right places, but her heart wasn't in it, and her friend realised this almost immediately.

"Christine?" she asked, "what's wrong?" The dark-haired 16-year-old looked down at her feet, dangling off the edge of the bed.

"Nothing." She evaded, and refused to tell Meg anything on the topic, but lay awake for a while that night, before drifting off into peaceful dreams of running along the beach.

The next morning, Christine went down to the chapel once more, and called out for her angel. This time, tears pricked at her eyes when there was no answer. She stood in the middle of the dingy room, forgetting to light the candle for her father, starting to find the two entities different, her father and her angel, she reasoned, probably had nothing to do with each other.

Her angel was _not _her father, even if he was sent by him. Her angel did not _act_ like her father, seemed even more protective at times, especially when it came to men and suitors. Her father was never an amazing singer, he could keep a tune, all right, but there was nothing of the dark, hypnotic voice that occasionally wormed its way into her dreams.

She had thought her father's skill on the violin was unmatched... until she heard the angel play. It was moving, it was majestic, it was perfect. His renditions of her father's music did no longer bring back old memories, but rather invoked new ones, where it was no longer her father who stood beside her, but her angel.

_A tall man, he would be_... she thought. _His hair would be... blonde, like an angel's hair should be._

_Long fingers, perfect for any instrument. He _was_ the angel of music! _

_His eyes would be blue, innocent. _

_A kind mouth that smiled often._

_His looks would be immaculate, symmetrical. A perfectly formed face, that would smile at her, his blue eyes glinting as he played to her, swaying in time to the music._

Christine busied herself with thinking of her angel, her vision of him kind, peaceful and perfect in every way... after all, he _was_ an angel. Or if he was a man, he definitely _sounded_ like an angel, and surely he would have looks to match. He would walk beside her in the streets, or play to her in her mind. If she closed her eyes, she could picture him in front of her, his smile, his dancing eyes.

Erik unfolded himself eventually, the pain having subsided slightly, and he'd gotten used to it after hours of lying there, his eyes screwed closed.

He squinted at himself in the mirror. He looked a sight – even worse than usual.

He was tall, he knew that, and he raised a hand and ran it through his thin blonde hair, almost invisible on his right side. It was stained red in places, where he had lain in the blood, it had matted his hair.

He looked down at his hands, long fingers; perfect for any instrument he played to quench his thirst for music. But also perfect for the terrible, terrible things he did with them, he spied his lasso over the other side of the room.

His green eyes were bloodshot, from the lack of good sleep and the terrible things he had put his body through... when was it, that morning? How long had he been out? What day was it? Was it even day? He shook his head, to clear it. Who cares?

He winced as pain shot through his head again, his mouth turned down in a frown, the crinkles in his forehead causing him to look older than his 30 years, and as tired as he often felt.

He tried not to look at the deformity that covered the right side of his face, it looked even more terrible when covered in blood, though this time the blood did not originate from there, he had not scratched his face in his madness.

He was no angel; he knew that, even without looking. He could sing angelically, but notes that came from his mouth were often terrible, terrifying. His eyes looked exhausted, and tired. But not from lack of sleep. He was tired of being sad, of being lonely, of being scared of himself.

He limped over to the organ, filling the ink pot that lived on the edge. He grabbed a handful of papers, and began to play. Every note was thought out with extreme care, every page triple checked for any note that would sound better in another's place. He shoved away the folder that read 'Christine', and brought forward a blank one. He took a different quill, dipped it in a pot of gold ink, and scribbled down three words on the black surface.

_Don Juan Triumphant_

Christine spent the next few days floating through life. She danced on stage, in front of a huge audience, and imagined her angel watching her... the one she imagined.

She began to imagine other things with her angel, he was always beside her, she spoke with him, both sides of the conversation originating in her mind. He was always a gentleman, and he never lost his temper with her...

She found herself wishing it could be true.

Erik was feeling restless. He had lost track of time working on his new work, which he would never publish, that nobody could ever see... he kicked the wall in annoyance at the way he couldn't even do the thing he loved without invoking fear. He hopped around for a bit, having stubbed his toe, and resumed his pacing. He found himself fingering the lasso on his belt, impatiently, wishing something would happen to attract his interest, but he didn't feel like going up to the Opera House.

He turned and paced back the length of his lair, running a hand through his matted hair, he winced and made his way towards the lake, pulling off his ripped shirt and kneeling down on the shore. He cupped the cold water in his hands and splashed it over his head, shivering slightly at the cold shock.

He dipped his shirt in the cold water, soaking it up, and washed the worst of the blood off it. He raised it up to his scar-crossed chest and gasped at the shock of the cold as he mopped away the dried blood.

When the last part of blood washed away into the underground lake, Erik braced himself and bent forwards just above the water and scooped the freezing liquid onto his blood-matted hair. He used his long, pianist's fingers to pull out the worst of the knots, and shook his head lightly when he was done, spraying water droplets everywhere.

And that was when the alarm went off, causing him to almost jump a foot in the air and leap into action. There was someone in the fourth cellar... and nobody went down there. He pulled on another white top, which clung slightly to his wet skin, his hand flew down to his waist to check his Punjab was secure, and ran his fingers almost lovingly over the coarse material.

He pulled on his black wig, checking in a mirror that it was straight and almost gasped when realising his mask was off... of course, he had broken it! He looked around frantically for his spare, and spied it on top of a pile of costumes. He pressed it to his face, and set off into the darkness at a run.

There was a light, at the end of the tunnel, and Erik slowed to a walk, making no noise on his cat-like feet. He was barely a shadow, as he passed down the hall and looked round the corner. The light was coming from a torch, burning brightly, sending flickering shadows of the man he saw onto the walls.

It was the stagehand; Joseph Buquet. Erik rolled his eyes, the man had been a nuisance ever since he had turned up, flirting with the chorus girls... if he tried to touch Christine one more time... Erik ground his teeth, and stepped out from the shadows, doing his best to look menacing.

"What are you doing here, Buquet?" he asked, his green eyes sparkling in the darkness, his clothes hanging off his skinny frame, the light flickering on his mask. The stagehand took a step back in slight surprise.

"Who are you?" he asked, curiously, eyeing the strange man. "I don't think I've seen you around here..." he frowned.

Erik smirked. "But I have seen you, Buquet." He told the other man. "I see everything that happens around here. "I see your disgusting habits with the chorus girls... innocents." He spat "you are truly abominable."

Buquet thought deeply. "So you've been spying on me?" he asked, slightly worriedly. "Is that why you're wearing a mask? To hide your identity?" he asked.

Erik smirked. "Yes, let's go with that one." He agreed. "What are you doing down here?" he growled.

Buquet snorted. "I _do_ know you." He said, with contempt. "I recognise your voice. Your that freak who plays at being a ghost." He said, jabbing a finger towards Erik.

The two men began circling each other, the insult obviously going to end in a fight.

"Your pathetic, you know that?" Buquet jibed, "Too sissy to get a _real_ job, too much of a woman to _work_ for anything?"

Erik's eyes narrowed, and his hand twitched towards his lasso. "Beware what you say." He told Buquet, "For it may be the last you ever do."

Buquet laughed, "What are you going to do?" he taunted. "Get your daddy to beat me up?"

_The figure stood over him, the voice crying out "devil" as he felt the bite of the belt. He saw a figure, his mother, looking pale... looking away, unable to watch, but unwilling to do anything. A laugh came from his left, a brother, watching him curled up on the floor. A cry echoed out, from his own lips, high pitched, pleading. "Father, please!"_

Erik's eyes widened as the memory came unbidden to his mind where it had hidden for many years.

"If there's one thing I have learnt." He bit out, "It is how to fend for myself." And he loosened the rope from his belt, easily throwing over the other man's head, tightening round his neck.

Buquet's eyes widened in panic, his mind working at double time. "What?" he panted, "can't take me yourself? Got to use your tools, as you can't pack a punch?"

Erik loosened the rope, his eyes blazing. He set it round his belt once more, and held himself in a fighting stance, his blood racing through his veins with adrenaline. Joseph grinned, rubbing his neck.

"Come on then." The stagehand taunted, trying to cover up his anxiety.

They circled each other. Joseph made the first attack, diving forwards to throw a punch at Erik, who neatly sidestepped him, and circled his foot out, sending Joseph tumbling to the floor. The stagehand rolled and leapt to his feet once more, tackling Erik's legs this time, causing both men to fall to the floor, grunting with the impact. Erik kicked out, connecting with Joseph's stomach and sending him backwards.

Joseph pushed himself off the floor, and leapt once more at Erik, this time head butting him in the stomach, causing the new scars to protest and Erik to yell out as one of the scabs ripped. Joseph noted this, and fell back, the two men once more circling each other. This time Erik threw the first punch, which Joseph ducked under and his fist flew out once more into Erik's stomach, causing the Phantom to cry out once more (though he would not admit it).

Erik's fist flew out again, this time connecting with Joseph's jaw and sending him reeling. The stagehand brought his hand up and gingerly felt the painful area. He then threw himself forwards, dodged Erik's defence and slammed once more into his stomach. Erik fell backwards, as the blood from earlier began to seep through the new shirt. Joseph noted this with slight alarm, causing him to let his defence down for a second, and Erik's leg swept his legs out from underneath him once more.

They both lay there for a few seconds, catching their breath. Then Erik rose to his feet and surged forwards, kicking Joseph in the stomach, causing him to double over and cry out in pain. Erik went in to kick him again, but Joseph rolled out of the way, with no desire to repeat the experience. He leapt to his feet once more and they faced each other. Erik began forwards, punching Joseph once more in the face, causing him to stagger backwards.

He soon recovered, and this time his fist flew towards Erik's face, catching him on the jaw and sending _him _backwards. His green eyes narrowed in hatred, as they began circling.

Erik lunged at Joseph, the blood loss causing him to be less than top of his game and Joseph easily sidestepped him, and grabbed him from behind. Erik struggled to throw him off, and Joseph grabbed his hair...

Well, what he thought was his hair...

The black wig came off in his hand, and Joseph looked at it, surprised. Erik twisted round, his eyes full of anger, and Joseph retaliated without thinking, his fist flying forwards and connecting with his face...

Well, his mask...

Sending the white material flying.

Joseph gasped, and took a step backwards, his eyes running all over the Phantom's face. His _bare_ face. Erik surged forwards in anger, but Joseph ducked under his arm, dropped the black wig and ran for his life, the word _devil_ echoing through his head.

Erik twisted round and saw his enemy fly out of sight. His voice was dark and menacing when he called after the fleeing foe.

"**I swear to you, Joseph Buquet." **He shouted after him **"One Day, I will **_**kill**_** you for that!"**

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**??? what do ya think??? lemme know, pleeeeease?**

**Muchas Gracias mis amigos. **

**Oreal  
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	24. Chapter 24

**heya! another chapter, again quite quickly (for me), XDDDDD**

**Thank you reviewers, so much! over 50 reviews! (nearly 60! XD) anyways, enjoy!!!  
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**Chapter 24**

Erik was not in a good mood. He grabbed his mask and strode back to his lair, murderous thoughts causing his green eyes to darken, like the sea amidst a storm, and flash, like the lightning that so often accompanies the terrible storms that occasionally ravage the skies.

He pressed the white material into his face with such a force that it almost dented his already ravaged skin. He slammed his hand into the rock face, cursing the passage for opening so slowly and delaying his entrance. His feet knew the passages where his eyes could not see, and they marched unerringly along the passageway, exiting it, where the candles allowed his eyes to see clearly once more, as no human – phantom or otherwise – could have eyesight that impeccable.

He entered his lair, his pupils blown wide in anger, his forehead creased in a frown. He approached the organ, and glanced down at it, his anger beginning to abate slightly as he thought over the situation, and from the 1001 ways to kill Joseph Buquet his mind had conjured up. He ran his hands through his hair, sitting down on the stool. He had let his guard down slightly; he could never let that happen again. He shuffled the large number of sheets littering the organ and the floor around it. He placed them in a pile, where they had been strewn around and as he moved one of the pieces, he saw a black folder glaring at him, the golden lettering taunting him, reading the name _Christine_.

He opened the folder, eyeing the music inside, happy, light melodies. He cocked his head slightly, his mind whirring. How long had he been secluded down there this time? You lose sense of time in the eternal darkness. Was it time for his next pay check? Had he missed many of Christine's lessons? What Opera were they doing now? Had they finished the last one?

Christine had danced in it. Had he congratulated her? Told her how enchanting she had been?

He racked his brains.

And stood from the stool. His heart suddenly seemed heavy, as if a huge weight had been added to it. When was the last time he had sung to her, or vice versa? When was the last time he had stood there, drinking in her delectable appearance?

His feet took charge once more, carrying him out of the dark place he called home, and up the passages he knew so well. He barely took in his surroundings as he headed for the surface, and stood in the flyers, looking out at the deserted stage. The previous posters and setting had been taken down, and he guessed they would be starting a new opera.

The lights were all out, leading Erik to assume it was the night-time, so he would go unobserved. He crossed the deserted stage, glanced at the band pit as he passed and entered a dark hallway – still on his guard. Some of the scars on his chest had reopened, thanks to his fight with Buquet, and he winced every now and then as the material of his shirt caught on the sensitive areas. He was still rather bedraggled, but he found himself not in the mind to care as he entered the manager's office via a secret entrance. He found plans for a new show – _Hannibal_, and a letter. He read through the letter, rolling his eyes as he reached the end of the script.

The manager would be leaving – the letter was from some Andre and Firmin, accepting their new roles, and an exciting prospect of a patron – a Viscount. Erik contemplated the benefits of this new patron, and found himself glad that his Opera House would have a more consistent flow of money – it did cost a lot to run (and if he was truthful, he found the idea of intimidating some new managers thrilling).

He then noticed the date on the letter. He had not been around for almost a month – and his monthly pay check was long overdue. Erik's eyes narrowed. Just because he was leaving and because the Phantom hadn't showed up for a while, it did not mean that the manager could shirk his responsibilities. Erik looked round for a sheet of paper, and dipped a quill into an inkpot. He told Mr. LeFevre exactly what he thought of him, and demanded his pay to be left with Madame Giry the following day to pass on to him. Antoinette had not been down to pass on his money as she did when he was not around and hadn't picked it up from box five by the day following the date of his pay check – which led him to believe that there had been no pay, the manager obviously hoping that the ghostly entity had packed his bags and left him in peace.

There was no chance of that, Erik thought darkly – he had nowhere else to go, and even if he did...

_Christine._

He left the note on the top of the pile of letters the manager would undoubtedly have to read that day, and left the room just as the sun peeked over the horizon. He pressed into his dark passages, and made his way towards the stage where the first sounds of the morning could be heard.

He watched the orchestra begin to warm up and tune their instruments, squinting at the new music they were still unfamiliar with. As soon as they began the first piece, Erik winced and left the room – it needed work. A _lot_ of work... He then went to observe the chorus girls, where Antoinette was desperately trying to teach the girls the complicated new dance, with them falling over each other, their foreheads creased in concentration.

Erik easily picked out Christine amongst the girls, and his heart swelled. Her smooth, beautiful face was slightly marred with frown lines, where she was putting all her concentration into learning the new steps. He leant against the wall, watching her, her brown curls tied back in a bun to keep it out of the way, her clothes casual and easy to move in. The dark man found himself cracking a rare smile as he absorbed the sight of her, drinking in her appearance like a man dying of thirst.

Erik wasn't sure how the time passed so fast, as before he realised it, his angel was leaving rehearsals, after a quick drink from the water always available for the dancers, as they got exhausted easily. He stirred himself from where he had been leaning against the wall, looking left and right to loosen the stiff muscles in his neck, and shaking out his stiff legs. Perhaps he _had_ been there a while, he reflected as he left after Christine.

The first doubts creeping into his mind.

_What if she didn't want him anymore? Did she think he'd abandoned her?_ His thoughts turned melancholy as he followed his object of affection – hidden in the walls.

She was going down to the chapel, and his heart leapt in hope. Maybe she hadn't forgotten him!

As Christine went into the chapel, Erik took his usual place behind the area in the wall, where he could see her clearly, but be invisible to her eye. He watched as she looked round, and made sure she was alone. She was about to light a candle for her father when Erik called out to her.

"Christine." His voice echoed once more after weeks around the dark area, causing the dark-haired beauty to pause. She looked round, with joy in her face.

"Angel!" she called out happily. "I thought you'd left me." She looked at the floor, her imagined image of her angel entering her head as he replied.

"My apologies, mon ange." Erik pleaded with her. "I did not mean you to think so. I was very busy for a while, with my music." He told her, his voice full of guilt.

Christine nodded, her eyes still on the floor – of course, the Angel of music would have a hard job keeping up with all the adaptations in music...

If he was really the angel of music...

Could he be a man? Christine thought, not for the first time. That would explain why he had left – all men have other things to do than teach a young girl to sing. And it seemed there were a lot of ghostly entities in this place – could it be only one?

No, her angel could not do the terrible things the Phantom did to Carlotta. Christine was not particularly fond of Carlotta, but did she really deserve to have sand-bags dropped on her when rehearsing? Or having a trap door open under her feet in the middle of a particularly bad aria?

Had the Phantom been around over the last few weeks? There had been no sandbags, no trapdoors, no disembodied laughing...

No dark voices that seemed eerily familiar...

Christine frowned, thinking deeply, and Erik felt a slight sense of foreboding.

"Christine." He called out, "I believe you have begun rehearsing for _Hannibal_?" he asked, trying to smooth the frowns out of her beautiful face.

Christine looked up, distracted from her train of thought.

"Yes, angel." She said, "Piangi and Carlotta are the main roles, like usual." She informed him, "you know they are married now?" she asked, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. Erik's eyebrows rose.

"Married?" he asked, a tone of amusement in his voice. "I can hardly believe it." He exclaimed, smiling. Those two deserved each other... and don't think he missed the secret glances between them before he left. The Phantom saw everything.

Christine smiled lightly, hugging her knees.

"I remember the last time the Opera House put on Hannibal." She reminisced, "I was only a child, and I thought it was so beautiful." She smiled, "but it doesn't sound so great at the moment." She laughed, and Erik winced slightly, remembering the screeching of the orchestra trying out the piece.

"I remember." He told her, a smile in his voice. "It was just before Carlotta joined, was it not?" he asked rhetorically, then ploughed right on.

"Your voice would be perfect for this opera." He told her – her voice would be perfect for any, of course, but it didn't help to give her some praise, and indeed Christine was glowing from his praise.

She shrugged, "but Carlotta is the lead, of course." She told him. Erik found himself nodding.

"Of course." He agreed, "but there is no reason for you not to learn the songs." He said, and Christine grinned.

"Yes _please_, Angel!" she laughed, any music would thrill her, but she remembered the songs from this, remembered herself watching awe-struck as they rehearsed.

Erik smiled at his angel. "_Think of me_?" he offered and her eyes lit up.

It was a dark night, and the solitary man struggled through the rain, a cough wracking his body. He almost fell a few times, and staggered through the streets.

A physician saw the bedraggled man, and strode forwards, supporting him. The man nodded in thanks, and another hacking cough ripped his throat. The Physician helped the man stumble down the road into his home, where the ill man was placed upon a bed the physician's patients often resided in.

The physician found himself wincing as his patient sat up and coughed harshly once more, a fountain of blood blossoming from his mouth into a bowl the physician had grabbed, just in case. The man's dark hair was untidy, and tangled. His once crisp white shirt was stained with dirt and blood, and his black trousers were ripped. The man's green eyes were blood shot and full of pain. He struggled to speak, but the physician stopped him.

"Calm down mate, you'll be okay." He assured him, but the sick man shook his head.

"No." He rasped, "dying." He told the physician. He coughed again, and another bubble of blood escaped from his mouth. The physician stopped him.

"You will be if you think like that." He told him sternly. "Don't you have a family to get back to? They'll be missing you." He told the man, who shook his head once more.

"No." He said, "Done bad – _cough_ – things. Family gone – _cough – _moved away. All my fault." His breathing turned harsh, but he didn't stop talking. "My son. My wife." His eyes turned distant, and a frown appeared on his face.

"My sons." He corrected himself. "Oh, Erik – _cough_ – I'm so sorry." His face was pale and his knuckles white where they gripped the sheets. He turned to the physician.

"Please." He asked, his eyelids fluttering. "Make sure my family – _cough_ – make sure my will is followed." He begged, his eyes pleading. "Give my family their lives back." His eyes closed. "Well as many of them as possible." He said, thinking of the small boy he had sold to the gypsies.

"Tell them I'm sorry." He muttered, his head falling back, his hand relaxing, his breathing stilling.

The Physician wiped a tear from his eye and vowed he would make sure this man's wish was fulfilled. He pulled out a wallet and looked at the ID card **(sorry if I have historical mistakes)**.

Monsieur Dupet.

_A few weeks later..._

Henri wiped the sweat from his brow, the weather being surprisingly pleasant for England, and rolled up his sleeves. He was about to resume his work, when his employer called out from behind him.

"Henri!" The man in question turned round, his tall frame taken as intimidating, his blonde hair full, but not too long, his body toned and strong. His handsome face looked questioningly at the letter currently being waved in his face.

"What do you want?" he asked shortly – he had discovered he owned a slight temper, and he was not in the best of moods, him being hot and sweaty, and he hadn't slept well the previous night, so he wasn't the best company. His employer continued to grin in his face.

"Well, it's for you." He said, as if it were obvious, "don't you want to read it?" he asked, shoving the letter under his nose – and it did indeed read the name _Henri Dupet._

Wait a second... he hadn't gone under that name for years! He frowned, how did they know? How did they find out? He took the letter, which he wasn't surprised to find was in French, and shook his damp hair out of his eyes before reading:

_Henri Dupet,_

_It is my regret to inform you that Monsieur Dupet, your father has recently passed away. I must admit, it was no easy feat finding you, but I hired someone fully capable, and in just a few short weeks I discovered your place of residence._

_I felt I had to honour your father's last wish, and I write to inform you that his money has been left to you, as his son and heir, along with all that he owns – including a sizeable house here in Paris, France, and all his business. If you would like to sell it, then it is up to you, but it is your property now._

_You will get your name back, your place in society, and all that it means. It will not be difficult to find yourself a job if you wish, but looking after your father's property and his business will probably bring in enough pay._

_I wish you luck in any path you choose to follow, and I hope to meet you someday._

_Nicholas Harvey  
Physician_

_P.S. you will have to return to France to claim any of this – and if you do not after six months, then your property will be auctioned off._

Henri stared at the letter in his hand for a while, his eyes wide, disbelieving. If he admitted the truth, he was sick of his job, and of this life – unstable as it was. He forgot what he had been going to do, and ran off to find his mother. He knew he would return to France, to bring in a stable life, honour his education and upbringing, give his mother more comfort... and if possible, he would try to find his lost brother; Erik.

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**so... Henri's moving back to Paris! oooh lol, and Hannibal has started, its only a matter of time until we reach the film.**

**do you want me to continue telling the storyline like this during the film, or do you want me to sketch over it lightly? review! **

**Oreal**


	25. Chapter 25

**hey! enjoy XDD**

*******I DONT OWN POTO, IF I DID I WOULD BE ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER, AND... WELL IM NOT.*******

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Chapter 25**

Erik walked the dark corridors, a handful of candles in his arms. As he went, he put the candles into the candelabra he passed, lighting them with the torch he held in one hand. He hummed to himself as he went, dispelling the darkness in the passage between his home and the Opera House, namely the one to the chapel where all their lessons took place. He wished for a better place – one where he had more than just his violin, at least. But he could not take her to his lair...

Or could he?

His mind conjured up a multitude of images where he and Christine sang together, him sat at his organ. She would sleep in the bed – the one he had made for her, the swan... it had been quite recently, when he hadn't gone up to the surface for weeks, when he had carved out the detail on the wooden structure. He couldn't find it in himself to destroy it.

And perhaps his biggest blunder, that glared at him so obviously day after day... he could picture her with his eyes closed, and the drawings were done from memory. Some of them dating back years, some barely days.

He had carved a life-size mannequin of her, and adorned it with a dress that would make angels weep. His own design, of course... but it was not her, and he dreamt of the real her wearing his wedding dress, sending his mind into fantasies, often picturing her there with him, but every time he reached out, his hand closed on thin air. His loneliness deepened, and his music turned melancholy once more.

He saw her in the flames he lit, her brown eyes boring into his, but then he blinks, and she is gone. And a noise behind him causes his to snap out of his reverie, and turn.

And blink again...

But it wasn't a hallucination, as Erik realised when he walked forwards slowly, holding his hand out to it, touching it. His eyebrows rose almost comically.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked it, and the horse whinnied, nosing him. Erik took a step back, looking the horse up and down. It seemed perfectly healthy, it's black fur glossy. He inspected its teeth, and found them in good condition. It did not seem to have any sort of limp. Erik patted it on its flank, shaking his head in amusement.

"We'd better get you back to the stables." He told it, grabbing the rein tied round its neck. He led it easily to the Opera Stables, blinking in the light. "Here you are." He told it, dropping the reins and heading back into the passage, his mind boggled.

He had only gone a few metres when he felt eyes watching him. He whipped round, his eyes blazing and almost fell backwards when he came face to... nose with the horse.

"No." He told it carefully, "you stay here." He pointed at the stables, "I go there." He pointed into the darkness, and the horse whinnied, and began to walk down the passage. Erik sighed, running after it.

He grabbed the reins, and the horse nuzzled into him once more. He shrugged it off, and led it back to the stables, tying it up. The horse neighed in annoyance, as Erik walked off down the passage, shaking his head at the... rather amusing animal.

He went back up to the Opera House, to watch his angel.

Rehearsals were underway, and the costumes in the middle of being made... Carlotta being the biggest nuisance when it came to that, her irritating husband a close second – though at least he was less grating on the ears. Erik was furious at Buquet mainly, with his tales of 'the opera ghost', and his looks. But he always seemed to not be where he was supposed to be, and Erik vowed he would get him one day.

Don't think he hadn't heard him. The description of himself was ghastly, and he knew his face wasn't _quite_ that bad... he _did_ have a nose at least!

_Like yellow parchment is his skin.  
A grey black hole serves as the nose that never grew.  
You must be always on your guard, or he will catch you,  
With his magical lasso._

It made his blood boil! The way he was always drinking, spying on the chorus members when they were changing...

Erik spied Christine on the stage, her and the other chorus members warming up... now that was one costume he _was_ a fan of! The dancers... he grinned to himself.

He watched the rehearsal for a bit, it would improve in time... it was a new Opera, after all! Then, with a swirl of his cape, he left his box, and made his way back into the catacombs.

Christine danced on the stage, the practised steps coming more easily to her now, though the more trained dancers still struggled. Antoinette was very proud of her, her heart swelling as she watched her daughter and the surrogate daughter dance the difficult steps with more ease than most.

Christine could feel her angel's eyes on her, piercing her skin. She could always sense when he was there, nowadays. She felt his eyes leave, and couldn't help but feel a little disappointed when his presence vanished.

After the rehearsal, she went down to the chapel for her lesson, calling out to her angel, who hadn't arrived yet. Christine lit a candle for her father, smiling slightly as she recalled some old memories, of her, her father and Raoul. The little boy she had befriended... if that's how you want to look at it...

She still could not feel her angel's presence, and sighed, walking forlornly round the small chamber. She began to sing.

**(Angel in the Night – Basshunter)**

_Your my angel in the night  
Your my angel in the night  
Your my angel in the night_

Christine began to smile, an image of her angel appearing in her head,

_Your hair is dancing in the wind  
Your eyes are burning up my skin  
And I'm so happy when I see  
That you are smiling back at me_

She didn't feel Erik approach, lost in the music playing in her head, her hand trailing the rocky walls.

_You're leaving burn marks on the ground  
Thank you God for what I've found  
I don't know how, I don't know why  
But your my angel in the night_

Erik almost stopped breathing when he heard her voice. He hadn't taught her this song; in fact he couldn't recall ever hearing it before. His eyes widened when he heard the lyrics, his heart pounding.

_You are my light in the dark  
You are the beating in my heart  
Let me hold you now  
Just like days before you start to cry_

Erik placed his hand on the wall, his eyes watering.

_You are my light in the dark  
You are the beating in my heart  
But that is not good enough  
Will I ever be by your side?_

Erik made up his mind then and there that she would be his, and they would be together. Why would she sing like that if she didn't love him? And it was the same love that was threatening to tear him apart.

Just as Christine went to start another verse, Erik felt something cold touch his arm. He cried out in shock, and whipped round, causing Christine to break off and look round.

Erik came face to face once more with that _blasted_ horse! He edged backwards, forgetting Christine was there.

"No." He told it, his back up against the wall. "How did you get out?" he asked it, looking at the frayed reins. He shook his head in exasperation.

Christine frowned in confusion, wondering who her angel was talking to.

The horse gave an answering whinny, and nuzzled into Erik, who gasped in shock, trying to push it off. He glanced behind, at Christine's slightly surprised expression, grasping that she had heard the horse.

He ducked out from under the strong head, and walked away slightly; irritated that it had caused his angel to stop singing. "What are you doing here?" he asked it, as it turned to face him, blowing into his face. He spluttered.

"_Blasted ANIMAL!_" he shouted, his temper flaring for a second, and then diminishing. "Go away." He told it, turning back to Christine, who was standing there, looking shocked. He went to say something, but the horse butted his with its nose, and he banged his head on the wall. He whipped round.

"NO!" he shouted, waving his hands at the horse. "I already took you back to the stables once today, you are trying my patience." He warned, but the animal just whinnied happily. Erik stormed off.

"Fine." He shouted, "Have it your way." And he left the horse in the darkness... following his scent.

He heard it a few seconds later, and almost ripped his hair out. "Stop following me!" he shouted, and the animal neighed.

Christine heard the whole thing, and found herself laughing quietly. She had _not_ expected to hear this, in her wildest dreams. She leant against the wall as she heard his shout of 'Stop following me!' laughing outright, but quietly.

Erik didn't hear her laughter as he stormed down the passage, the horse following him.

"Okay." He turned to face it, his hands raised in surrender "You can stay down here, its dark, and it's gloomy, and it's usually cold. So _fine_, let's see how long it takes for you to get bored..." And he strode off, leaving his angel in hysterics and the horse clip-clopping behind him.

Erik crossed the lake, pushing strongly on the punting pole. His thoughts were interrupted when the horse snorted behind him. He looked behind, and the horse was sniffing at the water. It tentatively placed one hoof into the water and withdrew it, neighing loudly. It looked at his as if to say '_This is your fault_', and backed away from the cold liquid, tossing its head. Erik shook his head, exasperated at its antics and poled away across the lake, sighing.

He jumped out of the boat on the opposite shore, pressing a couple of notes on his organ as he passed it. He went into his alcove where a multitude of pictures greeted him, all of the same thing – Christine. He traced her features on a charcoal picture, sighing slightly. He sat down in front of his miniature model of the stage, and began moving the characters around, imagining Christine in the leading role.

He would get it for her one day. An idea came into his head, and he smiled. On that day, he would show himself to her. He vowed it to the empty air, a smile on his face, as he put the Christine figurine at the front of the stage, and imagined her singing an aria to the adoring audience.

Antoinette stood outside the chapel. She had come down here to find Christine, as she had left something on the stage, and had been shocked beyond belief by her song.

She had frozen outside the door, her mouth hanging open at the beauty of her voice – Erik had outdone himself! And Christine hadn't even told a soul. Antoinette wondered if Erik was down there...

And her thoughts were interrupted...

Yes, Erik was down there, she frowned as she listened to a disjoined conversation – had he gone mad? And her eyebrows shot skyward when she heard the whinny... was that a _horse?_

She listened to the commotion for a while, but had to leave quickly as a laugh threatened to escape, that would enlighten them to her presence, and she ran off up the stairs, laughing breathily as she turned a corner, leaning back against the wall.

Who would have thought it?

She left Christine's ballet shoe on the young woman's bed, and ran her hands through her hair in amusement, remembering Erik's annoyance. Now she knew where the missing horse had gotten to – apparently it wasn't happy with its current owner.

Perhaps it would give Erik something to do, she thought with a grin, having a horse trailing him... she shook her head, was he a magnet for this sort of thing? She thought – the unexplainable seemed to surround him!

Christine left the chapel in a daze... "A _horse_?" She asked the thin air, her tone gobsmacked.

**

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**

**i watched the movie again... and realised, oops he has a horse... so i came up with something. The next chapter will be the beginning of the show, I think.**

**Review, pleeeeeeeeeease XD**

**Oreal  
**


	26. Chapter 26

**Hi...**

**Um... I'm alive? Heya? Anyone still with me?**

**SORRY! its been almost 2 months... i feel so bad!**

**i have a few excuses - exams, followed by moving house (sorta), followed by duke of edinburgh, all topped off with a nice case of writer's block!**

**Still dont own Phantom of the Opera (i wish...)**

**anyone thats still with me... enjoy! =)**

**(anyone thats interested, this is my longest story so far, and it now has the most amount of chapters!... i think)  
**

* * *

**Chapter 26**

Erik bent over a roll of parchment, his weary eyes drooping in the half light, his heart pounding in fear of sleep. He folded the parchment, sliding it smoothly into an envelope and sealing it with red-hot wax, forming in the shape of a skull. His flagging energy forced his aching wrist to write whom the letter was intended for before he staggered out of the room, his bones complaining.

He knelt by the piano, a yawn gripping him, ripping through him, forcing his tired eyes shut. He pulled himself to his feet, yanking his white dress-shirt over his head, a button flying off into the darkness. He kicked off his shoes as he entered his bedroom, sheer exhaustion causing him to see rationally that he needed to sleep.

He rolled into his 'bed' (which was more coffin-like than anything else), and his eyes slid closed, the duvet trapped under his knackered body.

_Hands gripping his hair._

_Laughter flooding the air._

_Pointing... accusing fingers._

_Bloodshot eyes._

_Darkness, the never ending darkness, reaching out for him._

_Christine..._

Erik smiled.

_Her auburn curls bounced off her shoulders, her creamy skin enticing in the moonlight. She came like a light through the darkness, surrounded in a blinding aura. She smiled..._

_But not at him._

_Her brown eyes looked past him, as if he were invisible. Another figure entered the darkness, invisible... but he could sense them. They weren't dark, he could sense it, and their tread was not light._

_Christine walked past him, but Erik could not turn. He tried to reach out, but she was out of reach._

_She gripped hands with the other figure._

Erik cried out in agony.

_He reached out, falling to his knees, as the blinding light dimmed, Christine walking slowly away._

"_NO!" He shouted, "Christine!" His voice cracked._

_Laughter, all around him._

_Pointing, accusing faces..._

_Christine... Christine's accusing face._

"_Monster." She spoke._

Erik shot awake, his head pounding, his heart aching. His breath came out ragged as a sob wracked his throat.

No. He refused to cry. That was weakness.

He pushed his sweaty palms into his eyes, kneading out the headache.

He rolled out of bed, checking his mask was in place and exiting his room. He found another shirt, and pulled it on, then sat on the piano stool and tugged on his midnight black shoes.

He adjusted the wig, took a deep breath and stood up, grabbing his cape and the letter he had written before exiting his home.

Erik made his way up to the stage, his headache returning at full-force as he heard Carlotta warbling along to _Think of Me_. His hands itched to strangle her with the rope in place at his hip. His tired, haunted eyes drifted skywards, and he noticed Buquet's post unguarded, and a smirk played at his lips.

He climbed to the flies with a familiar ease, in total silence, and walked past Buquet's post, his hand jumping out and unravelling the rope before heading off again, smirking as he heard an abrupt cease in Carlotta's singing...

Though, her screaming as the backdrop fell was not much more tuneful.

Erik winced, and shook his head painfully.

"If only that woman would shut up, once and for all." He muttered to himself as he dropped the note on the floor close to where Antoinette was standing.

He wasn't going to stay for the pleasantries. They would realise sooner or later what they had gotten themselves in for...

He made his way to the edge of the flies and shuffled down a rope with simple ease, from many years of practice. His feet touched lightly, silently onto the floor and he made off with the grace of a cat...

And froze.

His jaw dropped.

The most angelic voice was filling the air. And Erik could not quite believe it.

He span on his heel, and edged forwards to see.

Yes. He was not mistaken.

He smiled. Properly.

Christine was singing. Her soprano voice was souring through the auditorium, silencing all who heard it, the other rehearsals coming to a stop as all poured forth to see who was singing so beautifully.

Erik's heart soared, as he watched the managers closely for their reaction.

They nodded, and Christine beamed, her smile lighting up the whole room.

Her light to his dark.

Erik left the Opera House, his cloak shrouding him, the hood pulled down to cover as much of his face as possible. He made his way into the biting cold air, his breath misting before his face. He made his way across the road to the florists.

"How may I help you?" greeted the happy chap behind the counter.

Erik said nothing, but stepped into the shop, and a blood-red rose caught his eye. He picked it up and swirled it before his face.

"Oh, for a lady friend?" asked the cheerful man, but again Erik did not answer him. Instead, he placed a coin on the counter and took the rose without a word.

"What a strange bloke." The man commented after the door had swung closed again.

Erik paced the floor of his lair, his eyes raking the room.

It had suddenly hit him that if Christine would be singing in the opera tonight... it would be the night he would bring her to his lair. His heart leapt to his throat just thinking about it.

He sorted his music _again_, placing the _Christine_ folder out of sight. He was nervous about her seeing it.

Would she accept him as a man?

She had accepted him as an angel...

Had she already figured it out?

Would she be scared?

What was going to happen?

Erik's mind screamed all sorts of different questions at him, none of which he had the answer to. His hands were sweaty with worry, as he bit his lip.

He met the horse on the opposite shore, and stroked the mane. It had rather grown on him. Horses did not judge on looks, but rather on whether you looked after them properly. It was his sort of companion.

He led it up several flights of stairs, to a place close to where Christine's dressing room would be as the prima donna.

"Stay here." He commanded it, and it seemed to nod at him, rubbing its neck against him fondly. He stroked its mane again and left it staring after him, gripping a red rose with the thorns removed, the deep colour contrasting with the black ribbon tied around the stem.

Erik froze as he walked through the underground, a voice floating down to him. His eyes fluttered closed as he let the sound wash over him, from several floors up. His shaking hands stilled; his ragged breathing calming as he heard her sing – it was his medicine, she was his everything. If his love was this strong, then surely she must accept him? He had love enough for the both of them, it was leaking out of him. She _must_ love him, for how could she not, when _his_ heart beat only for her?

The song was replaced by the roar of the crowd, and the tension and worry sank back into his bones, consuming him once more. He took a deep breath. He had to do this.

Erik walked slowly to the dressing room – previously Carlotta's. He stepped out of the mirror and was instantaneously overwhelmed by flowers, in every colour he had ever seen, and more. His eyes widened as he glanced down at the rose gripped tightly in his fist... would she even notice it? He bit his lip and placed it on the night stand, and stood back. His eyes scanned the room...

This would be where Christine would be staying now... this would be her room. They couldn't take that away from her now. He smiled slightly before turning his back on the scene and exiting through the mirror, instantly invisible from one side. He stared through it for a second before he turned and fled down to his lair... he would have two hours to prepare it.

Erik stood in the middle of his lair, his critical eye washing over it. He had already sorted the music, but now what? He checked Christine's room once more... the swan bed looked... as it always did. The blinds... were meticulous – as always. He frowned, it just didn't seem perfect.

He glared at the room, blaming it.

"Curse it." He muttered, angrily, before turning on his heel and striding out of his lair to greet Christine after her performance.

He hesitated in the corridor... where would she go first? He wondered, his mind almost immediately filling in the answer – The Chapel. She would want to thank her father... he grinned. And perhaps her ghost as well. He shot off in that direction, to find Christine on her knees, hands folded together...

And in the most _stunning_ dress. His eyes widened, a small gasp escaping his throat.

Well first things first... he had to congratulate her, she wouldn't be surprised at his being there, after all.

"_Brava, Brava, Bravarissima." _He called out softly, taking in the sparkle in Christine's eye when she noticed his being there. He was _just_ about to compliment her attire when another voice interrupted them.

His eyes narrowed.

"Christine... Christine." Called out the voice of little Meg Giry, and Erik couldn't help himself as he whispered

"_Christine"_, his voice filled with tender adoration.

Christine turned to Meg, happily, and Erik sighed... he would just have to compliment her later on when...

He gulped, nervously.

He raised his eyes once more to the room, and realised Christine and Meg had gone. He frowned at himself before leaving to greet Christine in her dressing room, after she had escaped from the lecherous crowds.

Erik twisted his hands through each other as he paced anxiously behind the mirror. He would... sing to her, of course he would.

_It was his only positive attribute._ He thought mournfully, remembering his reflection with a shudder.

Maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all. Erik bit his lip, unable to keep still, until the door opened with a bang. He whipped round, and saw Christine enter with Antoinette. He smiled as he saw the latter attempting to fend off Christine's admirers.

He saw Antoinette notice the rose, and held his breath.

"He is pleased with you." Her familiar voice floated across the room to him and he released his breath explosively when Christine accepted the rose curiously. He mentally reminded himself to thank Antoinette when he next saw her, when he noticed her glance flash across the room to where he was hiding.

The dark man watched as the pale woman carried his gift across the room, ignoring the numerous garish flowers greeting her from all directions.

He was satisfied with just watching her, fiddling with the ribbon on the rose for a while. Then he went to speak and...

"Little Lottie." A voice greeted from across the room, and his eyes narrowed. Who was this? He asked himself angrily. Nobility, from the way he held himself, and the arrogance he emitted.

Would he _ever_ get to talk to her?

As he glared at the newcomer, he was very much aware of Christine's opposite reaction to the man's arrival.

"Raoul!" she acknowledged happily.

Ah, the viscount, Raoul de Chagny. Their newest patron... how on _earth_ did they know each other?

Erik's ire rose as they conversed happily, and his blood really boiled when she mentioned him.

She did not just go round telling _everyone_ about him... just who was this guy?

"Father said; 'when I am in heaven child, I will send you the angel of music'. Well father is dead, Raoul, and I _have_ been visited by the angel of music!"

"No doubt of it." Raoul agreed... a bit too quickly?

"And now, we go to supper."

_Oh no you don't._ Erik thought angrily, fury causing him to ball his fists by his sides. _She's MINE._

"The angel of music is very strict." Erik grinned in triumph. He ran her life now, he knew her. Raoul had no chance against _him_.

"Well I won't keep you out late." Raoul chuckled, and Erik almost punched the mirror. He wasn't even taking her seriously!

"I'll go draw my carriage. Two minutes, little Lottie." Raoul exited, and Erik growled deep in his throat. _You'll regret that._

He exited the area behind the mirror, and ran into Antoinette as he entered the hallway outside Christine's room.

"Who's that?" he hissed at her, as Raoul's back turned away round a corner. Antoinette raised her eyebrows.

"The Viscount, Raoul De Chagny." She told him, looking around warily, "Him and Christine were old childhood sweethearts..." she said slowly, and Erik growled. Antoinette looked worried. "Well they haven't seen each other for years." She reminded him "you never know what will happen."

Erik nodded, turning round and slowly locking Christine's door.

Antoinette did nothing, just watched him.

Erik stood once more behind the mirror, anger still etched in his expression. He watched Christine change; it was obvious she was not expecting to be going out somewhere, as she was wearing her nightdress!

Erik's anger rose inside him, unquenchable once it had begun. Just as Christine turned to leave, he panicked... she would realise she couldn't get out.

He called out, his tone laced with fury.

**(Angel of music (the mirror))**

"_Insolent boy, this slave of fashion!  
Basking in your glory!"_

Christine froze, and he relished in his hold over her.

"_Ignorant FOOL, this brave young suitor!  
Sharing in MY triumph!"_

He ranted at Raoul, and Christine's apologetic voice filled the air.

"_Angel, I hear you, speak, I listen.  
Stay by my side, guide me!"_

He would never leave her...

"_Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me.  
Enter at last, master!"_

He forgave her. All she had to do was ask.

He took a deep breath.

"_Flattering child, you shall know me.  
See why in shadow I hide.  
Look at your face in the mirror,  
I am there, inside!"_

He stepped forwards, revealing himself behind the mirror, his piercing eyes gripping hers, his heart thumping. Christine took a step forwards, and a half-smile appeared on Erik's face as she sung back.

"_Angel of music, guide and guardian,  
Grant to me your glory!  
Angel of music, hide no longer.  
Come to me, strange angel!"_

Erik slipped his fingers into the crack between the mirror and the wall, never keeping his eyes off Christine, his dark, hauntingly beautiful voice filling the air.

"_I am your angel of music!  
Come to me, angel of music!"_

He ignored the rattling at the door, his eyes intent on Christine, Raoul's shouts going unnoticed.

"_I am your angel of music!"_

He held out his hand, the mirror sliding away silently.

"_Come to me, angel of music!"_

Christine stepped through the mirror.

His dark gloved hand reached out in front of him, offering...

Christine reached out...

And took his hand.

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**okay, you probably knew exactly what happens then, and probably from now on so... well...**

**theres gonna be a bit of difference and stuffs.**

**review? O.o**

**Oreal  
**


	27. Chapter 27

**that was quicker =)**

**thanks for those who are still with me and for all my reviewers, thank you!**

****STILL DON'T OWN POTO**  
**

* * *

**Chapter 27**

Christine's head was reeling as she tried desperately to think clearly. So much was happening all at once, and she couldn't quite keep her grip on reality. It was only a couple of hours ago when she had all of a sudden found herself singing on stage for the first time in her life... and then Raoul had suddenly fallen back into her life – she hadn't seen him for so long!

And now this...

She had always felt a strong connection to her angel, and recently she had begun to suspect he was not just a disembodied voice.

However, this was not exactly how she had imagined him. The mask, for one thing... was not entirely anticipated.

This was almost entirely too real, his hand resting in hers, the dark material rough against the smooth pale skin of her small palm lost in the black fabric. She felt her hand tremble inside his... or was it his trembling? His black persona seemed a mile away from her innocent imaginings...

And there was that mask... what lay behind the plastic, shining brightly in the darkness, her only light?

And then it suddenly hit her, he was not an angel, and didn't seem as angelic... _was _there more than one entity haunting the opera house?

_The Phantom of the Opera is there,  
inside my mind..._

The lyrics seemed to echo round the empty hallways, and he glanced back at her, the mask seeming so bright, the deep green of his eyes seeming to bore into her in that one instant.

She felt protected in his hands, but at the same time like she was in a terrible danger.

She glanced behind, the world she had been taken from flashing in her mind's eye as she looked up the dark corridor they had just come down.

But his _voice_!

It enthralled her, causing her to look back at him, away from the light.

Into the dark.

Erik turned a corner and faced the horse, its black coat almost invisible in the dark corridors. He stroked its mane once, and turned to Christine to help her on – so she didn't have to walk the whole way and work up a sweat. He led it to the edge of the lake, his hands trembling slightly.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his crazed nerves.

He turned to Christine, who still had a slightly hypnotised look in her eyes. He offered her a hand and she took it, Erik's emotions going haywire as he held her hand tightly in his.

The last time he had ever held someone's hand was...

When Antoinette had rescued him from –

_NO! Don't think about that place. _His subconscious urged him, and he turned and helped Christine into the gondola boat, gripping the pole, almost too tightly in his worried hands.

She sat at his feet, dressed all in white.

_Like an angel._

And he stood over her, his usually stormy eyes calmly looking into hers as he pushed strongly across the lake, his muscles flexing with practised ease as he crossed the lake.

It was too quiet.

"Sing." He commanded.

And she obeyed, her clear voice echoing perfectly across the lake, clear notes filling him with awe.

"Sing, my angel of music!" His voice said, his head held high, with pride. He pushed the pole carefully against a hidden lever on the bottom of the lake and the portcullis opened, dripping sparkling water onto the lake, reflecting the numerous candles twinkling at them from the lair they were approaching, their eyes adjusting quickly to the small amount of light.

She looked up at him as they arrived, and out at the splendid 'home' they were approaching, her wide eyes disbelievingly taking in the details, her mouth hanging open ever so slightly. Her heart thumped nervously against her ribs, as she sang out the last note, perfectly in tune.

He stepped out of the boat, setting the pole down on the shore. His tall profile seemed to consume all of Christine's vision. She felt herself trembling, but she wasn't entirely sure of the cause.

Anticipation?

Anxiety?

Nerves?

_**Fear?**_

Erik turned, looking down on her. His stomach seemed to swarm with hoards of... well some sort of wriggly insects. His nerves didn't show on his face as he stepped away from the boat slightly, his insecurity causing him to sing, because he knew he could do that well, and they had that in common.

_You have come here  
for one purpose and one alone._

He began; his eyes boring into hers as he gestured around his lair.

_Since the moment  
I first heard you sing  
I have needed you with me  
to serve me to sing_

He turned away, looking out at his lair, gathering up confidence.

_For my music_

_My music..._

He twisted round to look at her, just to make sure she was really there. She sat in the boat, her eyes wide in awe as she looked up at him.

_**(Music of the Night – Andrew Lloyd Webber **__(in case you didn't know)__**)**_

_Night-time sharpens  
Heightens each sensation_

_Darkness stirs  
And wakes imagination._

He paced along the shore, his eyes on hers – wide, awestruck by the splendour.

_Silently the senses  
Abandon their defences_

As she gracefully climbed to her feet, her eyes locked on his, he offered her his hand once more, and guided her onto the shore.

_Slowly, Gently  
Night unfurls its splendour_

_Grasp it, Sense it  
Tremulous and Tender._

He sang to her, almost smiling as he did so, his eyes alight with passion.

And still he held her hand, gently supported in his. As she looked behind he could hardly bring himself to touch her anywhere else, but his hand moved of its own accord, calmly turning her face back to his, ever so softly.

_Turn your face away  
From the garish light of day!_

_Turn your thoughts away  
from cold, unfeeling light._

He led her through his home, passing a miniature version of the grand stage ahead, a delicate figurine stood at the front, adorned in a beautiful white dress, with chocolate brown curls cascading down her back.

_And listen to the music of the night._

He didn't just sing, he poured out his soul, his expression earnest, his eyes pleading.

He let go of her hand, the music taking over his body, mind and soul.

_Close your eyes and surrender  
to your darkest dreams_

He ran off, twirling round to face her as he stood behind the piano, a small smile on his face as he sang... no he didn't just sing, he _lived_ the music.

_Purge your thoughts of the life  
you knew before_

His eyes begged her to love him, filled with compassion and sadness, as she stood before him, a look of wonder on her face.

_Close your eyes  
Let your spirit start to soar!_

She looked so angelic, standing there, her eyes softly closed, her expression so peaceful. His heart reached out, painfully.

She opened her eyes.

_And you'll live  
As you've never lived before._

She flowed slowly forwards, towards him, his offering of love.

Their hands met.

_Softly, Deftly  
Music shall caress you_

He led her towards the organ.

_Hear it, feel it  
Secretly possess you_

His voice turned slightly huskier...

They leant in together, almost touching.

His forehead was inches from hers, as her eyes flickered for a second towards his lips, before fluttering back to his turbulent sea-green orbs.

_Open up your mind!  
Let your fantasies unwind!_

His heart hammered, and he stepped away, his gesturing hands trembling.

_In this darkness that you know  
You cannot fight_

Their eyes connected once more, and it felt _so_ right.

_The darkness of the music of the night!_

He smiled, as her body flowed with emotion.

His voice rose to a crescendo.

_Let your mind start a journey  
to a strange new world_

He paced through the lines of candles, his voice filled with intense emotion.

_Leave all thoughts of the life  
you knew before!_

Her eyes followed him, wide, awestruck, almost disbelieving...

And full of adoration.

_Let your soul take you  
where you long to be!_

He almost commanded her, the line followed by a short silence, both of them flowing with uncertainty and...

Something else.

_Only then can you belong  
to me._

He said the words almost reverently, approaching her where she stood, his hands raising up to grip her face, oh so gently.

He spun her, so she stood with her back to him.

_Floating, falling_

His hand flowed across her stomach.

_Sweet intoxication_

He lowered it, stroking down her curves, _feeling_ her.

Her eyes closed, and her head fell back against his.

_Touch me, Trust me  
Savour each sensation._

He brought her hand up to stroke his face – the side without the mask, and she turned in his arms to look at him as he gripped her hand between his.

_Let the dream begin!  
Let your darker side give in!_

He led her across the lair, between sheets of scribbled music and dancing candles.

_To the power of the music  
that I write!_

He guided her down a staircase, her eyes only for him.

_The power of the music of the night._

Now they walked side by side, every cell in his body intensely concentrated on where their hands connected, a part of his mind wishing he had not worn gloves to hide the torturous instruments of death that were his hands.

He hooked an arm round her back to guide her, passing a curtained off area, their eyes still locked together, intently.

He pulled back the curtain and regrettably tore his eyes off hers and looked forwards.

Her smiling face followed suit, and the relaxed expression froze as she seemed to be looking in a mirror, the Christine dummy – adorned in a majestic wedding dress – smiled back at her, unmoving.

Christine's eyes rolled up into her head, and her knees buckled, Erik kneeling immediately and catching her before she hit the hard ground. He carefully hooked an arm under her knees and easily lifted her off the floor, the white dress flowing down from his strong arms.

Erik looked ahead as he walked up a few steps towards the swan bed he had so carefully carved for her, and just for her.

_You alone can make my  
song take flight._

He carefully set her down on the soft bedding, his hand delicately stroking the pale skin of her face as he leant in and sang softly in her ear.

_Help me make the music of the  
Night!_

He regrettably let go of her face and stood up, pulling on a cord that caused patterned, black hangings to create a barrier between them, falling gracefully to the floor.

If she had opened her eyes, all she would have been able to see through them was the white mask, taunting her, trapping her, loving her.

Forever.

* * *

**thanks for reading this far**

**i wont be able to update for at least a week now coz im going to spain XD ill try when i come back though!**

**Thanks,  
**

**Oreal  
**


	28. Chapter 28

**heya :) i would have updated as soon as I got back from Spain, but i'd left my laptop at my dad's and didnt get it for ages, then i was in france (benefits of divorced parents XD)**

**anyway, i got back yesterday - so I had to write this today!**

**Next one should be quicker, im not going anywhere else, and i've written a plan.**

**Anyway, enough about me - this is what you've been waiting for =)  
**

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**Chapter 28**

Erik backed silently away from the sleeping figure of his beloved angel, his deep green eyes unwilling to look away. His mind battled with itself before he forced himself to turn away and tread carefully to a desk.

The ink pot clicked quietly when he pulled away the lid, carefully setting it down on the light brown wood. The crackly paper rustled as he pulled a sheet towards him, dipping a quill into the pitch black ink and bringing it back to the paper, where it scratched numerous letters onto the slightly yellowing sheet.

_Dear Andre,_

_What a charming gala. Christine was in a word; sublime. We were hardly bereft when Carlotta left._

_On that note, the diva's a disaster; must you cast her when her season's past its prime?_

_O.G_

His eyes rose from the paper, and he glanced over at Christine's sleeping form, worried she would just disappear and he would awaken to find the miracle was just a dream.

But she still lay there.

_Dear Firmin,_

_Just a brief reminder. My Salary has not been paid! Send it care of the ghost by return of post._

_P.T.O_

The paper rustled as he whipped it over to the other side.

_No-one likes a debtor, so it's better if my orders are obeyed!_

_O.G_

Erik grinned to himself as he slid the letters smoothly into envelopes, sealing them with blood-red wax – the skull mould glaring out at him, until he looked away.

Two notes later, addressed to The Viscount Raoul de Chagny and Prima Donna Carlotta Gudicelli, Erik rose fluidly from his seat, twisting his neck side to side to loosen the muscles. He brought his hands up to his face and rubbed it slowly, denying himself the luxury of sleep – not tonight.

He glanced over at Christine once more; the notes clutched carefully in his tight fist, and finally turned his back on her, exiting the lair on silent, catlike feet – at a run. He flew up the stairs, dropping off the notes to the managers on their bedside tables, a quiet chuckle escaping when he imagined their reactions when they realised he had been so close to them.

His next act was to leave the other two notes where Raoul and Carlotta would find them immediately on entering the Opera House – he put them on the reception desk where the poor woman in the morning would have to make sure they received them as soon as humanly possible.

He would have delivered them to their homes, but was reluctant on being away from Christine for so long, in case she would awaken without him there. So he raced back to his lair, his path dark, and his footsteps unerring.

The light greeted him as he returned, blinking to his home. His first priority was to check on Christine, where she still lay sleeping – Erik's intense eyes could not see any difference in her position than when he first lay her down. A smile pulled slightly at the corner of his mouth as he watched her, his mind stubbornly rejecting sleep.

The night ticked by, slowly – but too quickly. Erik's gaze kept returning to Christine's sleeping figure, and it kept straying towards his organ... but he was against waking her, when she looked so angelic.

He sighed. He would have to go one night without any music, and without sleep – but he was used to that by now, even if it did leave him frustrated, and with an even smaller rein on his anger.

It usually didn't matter.

He paced the lair, eyes flickering over the familiar room as he tried to find something to occupy his time with. A box in the corner of the room captured his attention, and he wracked his brains trying to remember what it contained. He drew a blank. Curiosity peaked, he found himself approaching it from across the room, and pulling it out into the light.

The dust engulfed his sense of smell as he tugged it forwards, alarmingly loud against the smooth floor. He coughed once, and pulled open the top. The clothes inside were formal and neat – but far too small to fit him. He pulled out a miniature version of the clothing he was wearing at that moment, and it suddenly hit him.

They were _his_ clothes! His eyebrows rose as he eyed the outfits. Why did he keep these?

Was he ever _that_ small? One side of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. He'd been there for a long time.

His gaze wandered over to where Christine would be sleeping, though he could not see her through the rock...

It was worth it.

Turning back to the small box, Erik pulled out a few more items of clothing, a small mask and a sheet of music. He sighed at the items, a rush of sympathy flooding him for the small child who had been subjected to that life – the life that made him what he was now.

A tear worked its way out of the corner of his eye and trailed slowly down his face, where he quickly swiped it off, glancing over at Christine's sleeping form.

He turned back to the box.

He pulled out a last outfit, and his heart skipped a beat. His hands began to tremble, as a hundred memories attacked his mind. He picked up the object hidden underneath, so familiar.

He set it down in front of himself, and knelt down, facing it. The stuffed monkey gazed back, unblinking. When was the last time he had seen this old thing? He had been inseparable with it in the gypsy camp and he reluctantly remembered gripping it so tightly when he ran from them, when he first came to this place.

When did he put it here?

_When you decided to grow up._ The Phantom inside him reminded him, but Erik just shook his head. His vision swam as he looked down on the small figurine, and it took him a while to register the salty tears winding themselves down his face.

This time he didn't stop them.

He climbed softly to his feet, the monkey clutched between his large hands – much bigger than when he had last held this lifeline to him.

_This is madness. You are no longer a child! _The Phantom reprimanded him, but he ignored it this time, setting the monkey down carefully inside his bedroom. He brushed away his tears as he bent over it, sitting it gently on top of an old music box he used to use to try to make his exhausted mind give in to the lulling pull of sleep.

That wasn't what he was doing now though, and more tears cascaded down his cheeks when he twisted the key, and the music played – the monkey sitting still.

An idea approached him, and he bent over the old toy, his intelligent mind and nimble fingers making quick work of the mechanism, and while the sun rose in the sky – unseen in the eternal darkness he lived in...

The monkey played the symbols along to the tune.

Erik glanced at the clock, his eyes widening as he acknowledged the time and he raced out into the main space, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that Christine still slept.

Realising that she would wake up soon anyway, Erik glided thankfully over to the silent organ and gladly set his hands on the keys.

Music immediately filled the air, starting off in a slightly melancholy key, but gradually getting lighter as Erik let himself go – there was always a slightly sad tinge to his music, no matter how joyous he would be when he played. He closed his eyes, his fingers dancing their own life as the music flowed from him. His subconscious gave a sigh of relief that he was comfortable once more.

His ears immediately picked up when Christine woke – a sound that did not quite fit in with the music, slightly out of tune.

He heard her muttering to herself as she approached, reluctant to look at her, but unable to keep his eyes away.

"_And in the boat there was... a man."_ Christine recalled, and Erik finally looked up, his eyes gripping hers with a powerful intensity. She approached him slowly, his hands still flying over the keys, trying desperately to keep the worry and insecurity at bay.

He felt her stand behind him, and was almost certain he'd gone to heaven when he felt her soft, velvety skin caress his face.

His eyes slid closed.

Then it all happened so quickly.

One second he was relaxed, leaning into her touch, then the music stopped abruptly, his hand flying up to hide his face from her.

She held the white, alabaster mask tightly in her hand.

The phantom took over, a strong swing sending her tumbling to the ground, and the Phantom barely even realised her pain. His right hand gripped his distorted features and his green eyes blazed with fury.

His voice rose loudly through the room.

"_**DAMN YOU! YOU LITTLE PRYING PADORA!**_

_**YOU LITTLE DEMON!**_

_**IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED TO SEE?" **_

The Phantom pulled the cover off a mirror, grimacing to himself when his saw the grotesque skin pulled tightly over the bones, the hideous curse.

"_**CURSE YOU! YOU LITTLE LYING DELILAH!**_

_**YOU LITTLE VIPER!**_

_**NOW YOU CANNOT EVER BE FREE!"**_

The Phantom hesitated slightly, Erik pushing towards the surface.

"_**Damn you..." **_He ranted, slightly less enthusiastically.

"_**Curse you..."**_ His eyes rose to hers, a lifelong agony pulsing in them, hatred of himself. His voice softened slightly as his anger turned inwards.

**(stranger than you dreamt it – ALW)**

"_Stranger than you dreamt it  
Can you even dare to look,  
Or bear to think of me?"_

He chanted, his hand still pressed tightly to his face.

"_This loathsome __**gargoyle**__,  
Who burns in hell, but secretly  
Yearns for heaven"_

He found himself stood in front of the Christine figurine, and his heart twinged.

"_Secretly, secretly_

_Of Christine."_

He turned to look at her, his expression changing as he took in her form, fearfully curled up on the floor, his mask gripped firmly between her hands.

"_Fear can turn to love_

He was begging now

"_You'll learn to see,  
to find the man behind the monster._

_This  
Repulsive __**carcass**_

_Who seems a beast,  
But secretly dreams of beauty"_

Christine's eyes were full of pity for the man kneeling in front of her, berating himself – hardly seeing her at all.

"_Secretly_

_Secretly..._

_Oh, Christine."_

He breathed the last line, finally raising his eyes to look her in the face, his hand still pressed so firmly against his skin, gauging her reaction.

Seeing the fear in her eyes...

And the pity.

The Phantom roared, but Erik stayed calm, willing the tears to stay away.

Christine's hand trembled as she reached out for him, and his heart leapt. Had she forgiven him his outburst?

She was giving him his mask...

He took it gratefully, the smooth material comfortingly familiar in his gloved hand – he turned from her, and stood, pressing the mask back in place, hands trembling, trying to smooth out his now-wild hair.

At least he'd only knocked over a couple of candles, he realised as he turned to look at her, still on the floor – where he had thrown her. He felt a surge of remorse. The Phantom took over as he looked down on her, feeling annoyingly feeble and weak.

"Come, we must return." He demanded, shortly. "Those two _fools_ who run my theatre will be missing you."

He turned from her, where she was pulling herself off the floor and returned to the desk, pulling a piece of paper forwards and quickly scribbling the note, his brow furrowed in slight anger, humiliation and ... fear.

_Gentlemen,_

_I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run._

_You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance._

_Christine Daae has returned to you; and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of IlMuto, you will therefore cast Carlotta as the page boy, and put Miss Daae in the role of countess._

_The role which Miss Daae plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the page boy is silent, which makes my casting in a word – Ideal._

_I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box 5 – which _will_ be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur._

_I remain gentlemen, your obedient servant._

_O.G_

He smirked at the idea of the reaction to his note and folded it neatly, tucking it into his coat.

He took a deep breath and turned to Christine, who was watching him warily from across the room.

This time, they did not pole across the lake; Erik pressed the knot in the rock, causing it to slide open. He walked inside, Christine immediately behind him; he could sense her in the darkness.

"Angel?" She asked, tentatively. "I'm sorry."

Erik sighed, "me too." He muttered, "me too." Then he set off down the dark corridor, Christine stumbling in the darkness. In a moment of weakness, he reached out and grabbed her arm, tugging her along – but quite gently.

They wound their way up numerous passageways, Christine's heartbeat racing in fear, her thoughts occasionally marvelling at his unfaltering steps as her chocolate brown eyes strained to see something in the darkness... it was not how they had travelled last night.

She staggered along behind him, for what seemed like an eternity, until she saw her new dressing room through the mirror.

Sadly, Erik pressed the lever, causing the mirror to slide silently open and he stood, looking at her, his eyes deep with misery, loneliness, pain.

He tried to hold back the tears.

"Go." He demanded, nodding towards the opening.

She looked back at him one last time, his jaw taut and his eyes deep.

On trembling legs, tears pricking at her eyes, she went.

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**Thanks for reading thus far!**

**Oreal**


	29. Chapter 29

**-Still dont own Phantom!-**

**hey hey hey, you lucky people! Two updates in one week! dont get used to it :)**

**enjoy!  
**

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**Chapter 29**

Henri sighed, leaning back in his chair, his fingers running frustrated through his thick hair. A letter sat on the desk in front of him – no sign of his elusive brother. _Well, it's not as if you expected anything, _he reminded himself, rising to his feet and leaving the study, shaking his head at his mother as she came out of a side room, her expression questioning.

He was unsure that Erik was still in Paris – if he were him, he would try to get as far away from the terrible memories as possible, but he didn't know where else he would go – anywhere. The world was such a large place; it was verging on impossible trying to find someone who really _didn't _want to be found.

He sighed again, every time a letter arrived, a small spark of hope lit within his chest – always burst almost before it even existed. He had been trying for a few years now and what with that and working, he had almost no free time at all. He knew his mother worried for him, but he also knew that he couldn't give up.

Ever.

Erik stared out at Paris, his ears on constant alert that someone would appear from down below. He knew there were more rehearsals going on for IlMuto, but could not bring himself to watch. He knew that Monsieur Reyer would be able to keep them in control, and would be able to work on Christine's voice.

"Christine."

He whispered the name out to the grey sky above him from where he stood on the roof of the Opera House.

_You will have her._ The Phantom whispered to him, and he found himself nodding in agreement.

Recently, he had given the Phantom more of a reign over his thoughts; it was too hard to fight it any more. Not without her.

_Not for much longer_ the Phantom reminded him, _she will be yours. She cannot fight us._

Erik's mind was so busy that he didn't notice Antoinette come out onto the roof. She saw Erik standing there, and her head cocked in confusion when she realised he hadn't realised she was there. He never missed anything.

His stance was protective, stubborn, but there was something else. She had known something had gone wrong that night when Christine had returned to her, sobbing nothingness into her arms.

She took a step forwards and Erik heard her this time, whirling 180 degrees to face her, his hand going instinctively to his waist where his weapon resided. She smiled at him sadly, and his hand relaxed.

"You are on your own?" he questioned her, and she nodded

"Rehearsals have finished..." she hesitated, and his brow creased.

"What?" he demanded, realising something was wrong.

"Erik..." she began, but stopped, thinking of how to approach him with this.

"Spit it out, woman." He growled, frustrated.

"Please don't lose your temper." She begged – her expression fearful.

"What is it?" he demanded again, refusing to make any promises.

"Erik-"

"_Tell me, Antoinette._"

"Your note." She said hesitantly, "they aren't taking any notice of your demands... "Christine is not singing, she has been given the role of page boy."

Erik growled.

"Please, Erik." Antoinette pleaded, "Don't do anything rash. Christine is happy with this role; she doesn't want to get on the bad side of Carlotta. And she doesn't want to steal the spotlight every time."

"She doesn't know what she wants." Erik interrupted, his tone icy.

"Please."

"I will deal with this." Erik told her, "Make sure Christine has a costume."

"The gala is tomorrow!" Antoinette fretted.

"I know that. Make sure she is ready."

Erik whirled on his heel and vanished from the roof through another side door, leaving Antoinette staring sadly after him.

There was so much he didn't know.

She had seen how Christine was with Raoul; she was a different person, happy. She had begun to depend on him for protection – she saw Erik as a threat, though she had not said so, not in so many words.

Christine had said nothing else about her angel. She lived on the hope that she had not seen him for the rehearsal process; he wasn't forcing this role onto her. She no longer sensed his gaze on her, but she still knew somewhere that it was not over yet – if it ever would be.

If he would ever let her go.

And Antoinette had also seen Raoul fall in love with her. How his eyes lit up when she entered the room, how he brought her flowers in all colours of the rainbow. She saw how he seemed to centre himself on where Christine would be at all times, how he had taken her out for dinner, for walks in the twilight. How they both came back glowing.

He would kiss her hand, and bow, and she would smile _that_ smile, and melt in his gaze.

And it broke her heart that Erik did not – could not know.

Her eyes shone with tears as she gazed at the spot Erik had vanished from her sight to run back into the darkness, where he could try to escape.

Where he ran down the dark corridors, the Phantom conjuring methods of rectifying their current problem.

_She will sing tomorrow._ He promised himself, poling himself across the lake viscously, a frown on his face. The boat crunched onto the shore, and Erik threw down the pole. He jumped onto the land, and smoothly walked through his home.

He entered a side room, and nodded satisfied at his surroundings. He fingered the vials on the shelf, his mind searching for the correct ingredients. He flipped a book open, the page marked. His long, pianist fingers slid down the page, his eyes flickering left and right, scanning the page. He looked up at the shelf, and pulled two different vials towards him. His lips pulled upwards into a smirk as he placed 12 drops of the first liquid and 10 drops of the second liquid into a beaker.

The mixture fizzed for a minute, the resulting smell of sulphur tickling at Erik's nostrils. He scrunched up his nose and ignored the smell, putting the stoppers back into the vials and shoving them back onto the shelf. His eyes flicked back to the book, and he began to build a fire in the corner of the room, coming back to the beaker every now and then to make sure it hadn't gone wrong.

The contents of the beaker suddenly turned a startling shade of green, and Erik nodded in satisfaction, grabbing a small bucket and leaving the room, dipping it in the ice-cold lake and filling it to the brim. He lugged it back to the room and set it on the desk. He grabbed an empty vial and dipped it in the bucket, tipping it slightly to let some of the water out, setting it on the flat surface of the desk until the water level was exactly on the 50ml mark.

He poured the water into the beaker, causing the mixture to hiss angrily at him. He then put the beaker carefully on a metal shelf just above the fire to warm it.

After a couple of minutes, the mixture began to boil, ferocious bubbles escaping the surface, and Erik carefully grabbed the beaker off the shelf – a damp towel over his hand so he didn't burn himself. He set it down on the desk and waited.

After 20 minutes, the mixture turned from a startling green to a vibrant pink colour and Erik slammed the book closed, sliding it into place on the bookshelf just under the shelf of vials.

He put a lid on top of the beaker and left the room, poling himself across the lake once more, and entering the dark labyrinth he was too familiar with. He climbed the tunnels up to the surface and to Carlotta's dressing rooms. A line of throat sprays lay before the dresser where the maids were entitled to collect one before the performance. Erik took one of the uniform pink containers and disappeared once more into the darkness.

Back in his lair, he carefully emptied the contents of the spray and replaced it with his own concoction. He smirked to himself as he set it on top of the piano and retreated to his room, his mind trying to deny sleep, but he knew he had to be on top of his game tomorrow.

So he lay in his bed, trying to deny the nightmares that usually plagued him. He curled himself into a ball and twisted the key on his monkey, the tinkling tune of Masquerade filling the room, and Erik closed his eyes and set his mask on the bedside table, trying to forget reality.

He awoke with a bump, his body covered in a sheen of sweat and trembling in fear.

"Just a dream." He murmured to himself, taking deep breaths and disengaging himself from the duvet.

He climbed to his feet and pressed the white mask to his face, tugging his trousers down and replacing them with a clean pair and pulling a white shirt over his scarred chest. Finally, he set his lasso in place at his waist and whirled his cape round his shoulders, setting it on his back.

Then he grabbed his spray and left his home with a confident stride, his head held high, humming gently to himself.

After a while, he emerged on the surface, where there was a flurry of activity in anticipation of the upcoming gala performance. Erik walked past the kerfuffle unseen, unheard, as much a ghost as his nickname. He saw Christine dressing in the pageboy costume and his anger flared at her expression – resigned.

_She _will_ sing!_ The Phantom encouraged the anger, and his step was faster as he continued.

The chorus was doing warm ups, the dancers stretching their limbs. A look of anticipation, slight nerves and excitement showed on everyone's faces – sometimes accompanied by confidence. He saw Antoinette helping the dancers stretch, making sure they didn't mess around too much. He also, confusingly, noticed their patron hanging around.

_What is he doing here?_ He asked himself, noting the excited look on the Viscount's face.

_Perhaps he is here for encouragement..._ He thought, confused, not really believing his thoughts.

He walked past the corridors, watching them steadily empty as everyone made their way to the stage, and he walked up to his box, via the back route.

And froze.

His eyes narrowed and he glared at the Viscount, calmly sat in his box, his eyes trained on the stage.

_That's it._

He left the area and made his way towards the stage, hovering on the outskirts, waiting for the right moment.

He heard the curtain rise, his hand gripping the spray tighter than ever.

**(Poor fool, he makes me laugh – ALW)**

_They say that this youth has set  
My lady's heart aflame_

The maid set Carlotta's spray on a cushion, a perfect distance away, Erik grinned to himself.

_His lordship sure would  
Die of shock!_

Erik's hand shot out with the spray in, and he silently swapped them.

_His lordship is a  
Laughing stock!_

_Should he suspect her  
God protect her!_

_Shame, Shame, Shame._

_This faithless lady's  
Bound for Hades_

_Shame, Shame, Shame._

Erik passed Buquet backstage as he made his way towards the rafters.

_Serafimo, your disguise is perfect_

The sound of knocking echoed through the auditorium.

_Why, who can this be?_

Carlotta was replied by the leading tenor – Ubaldo Piangi.

_Gentle wife,  
Admit your loving husband!_

The audience laughed out as the tenor followed his routine – patting Meg (the maid) on the bum as he entered.

Erik walked silently backstage, with a slight feeling he was being watched, though he could see no one.

_My love,  
I go to England on affairs of state,  
And must leave you with your new maid_

_Though I'd happily take the maid with me!_

The auditorium filled with the joyous sound of laughter once more at the jokes.

_The old fool is leaving!_

Carlotta bantered with him on the stage, causing more laughter to fill the air.

Erik paused, watching from above, wincing at Carlotta's singing as Piangi pretended to leave, yet hovered on the edge of the stage.

Seeing Antoinette glance up at him from the wings, he remembered what he was doing and pulled back.

_Serafimo – away with this pretence!_

_You cannot speak,  
But kiss me in my husband's absence._

The music went into a crescendo for the chorus, and Erik passed through the chandelier room, crouching under the rope and glancing at the stage through a small, rounded window.

_Poor fool, he makes me laugh_

_Ha ha ha ha ha! _

_Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!_

Erik silently opened an invisible door to the rafters and stepped through it – unseen.

_Poor fool, he doesn't know_

_Ho ho ho ho ho!_

_Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho! ...etc..._

Erik took a step forwards

_If he knew the truth he'd never ever go!_

"_**Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept Empty?"**_

His deep voice echoed round the auditorium, causing people to look around and up at the ceiling.

Was he seen? He quickly scanned the audience. He didn't think so.

No wait, Antoinette was looking at him, her expression wary.

"He's here! The Phantom of the Opera!" He heard little Meg Giry whisper, and he rolled his eyes.

"It's him." That was Christine, her face unsure, a little worried.

"Your part is silent, little toad!" Carlotta immediately reprimanded her, and Erik could not help his quiet comeback.

"A toad, madam? Perhaps it is you who are the toad." His eyes glinted as he saw the maid pick up his concoction and bring it to Carlotta, spraying it into her mouth.

A stab of annoyance shot through him as she told the maid off for getting some on her chin, but it was quickly replaced by a surge of anticipation.

He left the rafters by the same door

"Maestro, de capo, por favor." Carlotta asked, and the music began once more.

_Serafimo, away with this pretence!_

Erik let the door close behind him, in the dingy room he had just entered.

_You cannot speak,_

Erik left the room at another door within seconds of entering, knowing he had got Christine her role now.

_But kiss me in my – __**CROAK!**_

Erik grinned at the gasps, then the laughter that followed – Carlotta would never get over this! She tried to continue...

_Poor fool, he makes me laugh_

_Ha ha ha ha ha!_

_Ha ha – __**CROAK!**_

_**CROAK!**_

_**CROAK!**_

The room was filled with laughter now, and Carlotta ran off the stage in distress, unable to sing. Erik silently congratulated himself.

The curtain fell, and the managers now stood at the front of the stage.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! We apologise!" Firmin began, his voice ringing out.

"Er... the... er... performance will... continue in ten minutes time!" He hesitated his way through the speech, then darted back and grabbed Christine by the arm, pulling her forwards "When the role of the countess will be played by Miss Daae!"

Cheers filled the room now, and Erik knew his work was done.

"Meanwhile, we'd like to give you the ballet, from Act 3 of tonight's opera." He sounded like he was going to cry! Erik thought, gleefully.

The stage was in chaos as they all tried to set up for the ballet far too early.

Erik approached the edge of one of the rafters, and saw Buquet wandering round, his eyes skyward.

Ah. A complication.

He made up his mind in a snap decision, deciding to deal with the troublesome man once and for all...

Payback time.

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**cliffie! havent had one for a while.**

**Can i have more than one review this time please?**

**Oreal  
**


	30. Chapter 30

**hey. not less than a week, but still not that long :)**

**Wow, guys we made it to 30 chapters! XD**

**Also, I realised ive been writing Lonely Angel for over a year now! wow... so, heres (belatedly) to a year of Lonely Angel!  
**

**I told myself I would finish my ICT coursework before I wrote this chapter, and thats why i didnt upload a few days ago... also my internet died yesterday... yeah, i still havent finished my ICT :/**

**Anyways! Enjoy chapter 30  
**

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**Chapter 30**

The Phantom.

The Opera Ghost.

The hunter.

He snapped his head back as Buquet looked up and began the taunt. He was strong. Powerful.

He followed Buquet, letting him snatch glimpses of him every now and then... closer, closer.

The music filled the stage, the rhythm dancing in The Phantom's bones, in his long stride as he took his vengeance. He heard Buquet's breathing quicken in fear as he hunted, the hard wooden flooring silent under his cat-like step.

Buquet was looking behind him, where he had last seen Erik... but he didn't know The Phantom.

He didn't fight fair.

He climbed up a rope and slid out from behind a piece of set, right in Buquet's face as he turned back, his face set in stone, his eyes granite.

The Angel of Death.

Buquet moaned in fear, and The Phantom revelled in it. Buquet ran; his cry slightly louder as he realised what his enemy was.

The prey's face was a mask of fear, worry, pain, as he leapt off the platform and began to climb a rope. It was laughable, to think he could beat The Phantom at his own game.

This place was once his playground.

The Phantom ran down the alley in the sky, the wooden platforms, climbing lithely and quickly up the ropes, the prey was no match.

The music continued to play, no-one any the wiser about what was happening above the stage.

Buquet was running along more of the wooden platforms, but The Phantom was there, just across from him, taunting him.

There was nowhere to run.

Nowhere to hide.

If he went left, The Phantom would go left.

If he went right, The Phantom would go right.

The laughter from the crowd fuelled The Phantom's anger, his hatred.

Buquet ran right.

The Phantom did not run, but jumped, clamouring swiftly up a rope, a shortcut.

Buquet was still running, his breathing coming faster, faster. He could not see The Phantom, but he was not free. His heart pumped adrenaline through his system, a sudden, sharp spike of it.

The Phantom swung up onto the bridge, just a couple of metres away.

No escape.

He grinned evilly, his mask shining in the half-light as he went into a crouch, grabbing at the ropes on each side of the platform, swinging it back and forth...

Causing the prey to fall to the floor with a cry.

The hunter stepped forwards, victorious.

The prey struggled to keep moving, looking at the stage just below them, the unknowing dancers.

The Phantom's face was stony as he stepped up behind him.

The rope was in his hand, his trusty Punjab. He held it lightly, basking in the cries of fear.

He sat on top of his prey, the noose immediately round his neck, and pulled.

Tighter.

Tighter.

The fallen struggled, the victorious pulled, his grimace showing the effort going into the task.

He pulled.

Buquet was suddenly facing him, trying to release the rope, struggling.

Pain.

Fear.

He held the rope where it was, watching as the struggles lessened, watching as the lights in his eyes dimmed, as his mouth hung open.

As the breath stopped.

One last pull and The Phantom stood, holding one end of the rope and kicked Buquet off the bridge, hanging over the stage.

Screams erupted, and the prey kicked for exactly 5.3 seconds.

Then he stopped.

The Phantom released the rope, letting the victim fall to the floor, his expression triumphant. He looked down at the stage, the ballet girls either flocking to the body, or running from.

He swirled his cape out behind him, and left the scene, knowing full well they would never disobey his orders again.

He knew they would be looking for him, so he fled. To a place he knew they wouldn't expect him to go.

He ran up several flights of stairs, his feet still silent, and the adrenaline still strong in his system.

He breathed out in relief as he emerged on the deserted roof of the Opera House, soft snow swirling around him. He leant against a statue, and sank to the floor, sighing calmly, his face upturned to the sky.

He felt free.

No-one would expect him to come up here; they would expect him to run into the darkness.

How right he was.

_Raoul I've been there!_

Erik's heart skipped. Christine. She was here.

She was not alone.

_To his world of unending night,  
To a world where the daylight dissolves into_

_Darkness_

_Darkness_

Erik poked his head out from behind the statue, and saw her. Christine. She was dressed in a white dress, clinging to her curves, and a red cloak – to keep her warm.

_Raoul I've seen him!_

_Can I ever forget that sight?_

Her expression was fearful; she had seen his murderous side.

Ah.

_Can I ever escape from that face?  
So distorted, deformed,  
It was hardly a face  
In the_

_Darkness_

_Darkness_

Erik's heart skipped. Him. She was talking about him. He reached up a hand and touched his mask. She thought he was a monster.

He _was_ a monster.

She continued, clutching his rose to her chest.

_But his voice filled my spirit with a  
Strange, sweet sound._

_In that night there was music in  
My mind._

She was walking away from him. From Raoul.

The viscount's expression was no longer comforting, but more disgusted, pained.

_And through music my soul  
Began to soar!_

Was there hope?

_And I heard  
As I never heard before..._

_What you heard was a dream,  
And nothing more!_

Raoul tried to stop her train of thought – not wanting competition. She didn't seem to hear him.

_Yet in his eyes,  
All the sadness of the world._

Erik found himself touching his eyes, as if to understand what she saw... His eyes had always been like that...

_Those pleading eyes,  
That both threaten and adore._

Erik hung his head, wishing things had gone differently with them, before. But maybe there was still hope.

_You WILL have her! _The Phantom agreed.

Erik leant against the statue, hearing her come closer, the other side of the statue. He stopped moving, stopped breathing.

_Christine, Christine._

Raoul called out to her, and Erik couldn't stop himself...

"_Christine..."_

Trying to remind her that he existed too.

Erik couldn't see what was happening, they were too close, it was not safe to look... but the talking had stopped... What was happening?

Please, God... let this not be what I think it is... He tried to breathe as quietly as he could.

The next time he heard them, they were further away.

_**(All I ask of you D=)**_

_No more talk of darkness,  
Forget these wide-eyed fears!_

Raoul sang to her, his voice not as majestic as Erik's, but still hitting every note perfectly.

_I'm here, nothing can harm you,  
My words will warm and calm you._

Erik's breath caught in his throat. No. Please, no! He leant back heavily against the statue.

_Let me be your freedom,  
Let daylight dry your tears!_

_I'm here, with you, beside you,  
To guard you and to guide you!_

Don't answer. Please. Reject him. _Choose me!_ Erik's hands were trembling.

Please.

_Say you love me  
Every waking moment._

No.

_Turn my head with talk of  
summertime!_

Please. Christine, please don't do this! Stop singing!

Erik looked out from behind the statue, refusing to believe what he was hearing.

_Say you need me with you,  
Now and always._

He gripped the statue with one trembling hand.

_Promise me that  
All you say is true._

_That's all I ask of you._

They were standing close together, practically touching. Erik's eyes shot to the abandoned rose lying on the snowy ground.

Please. You can't do this to me.

_Let me be your shelter._

No, let go of her! Erik's mind screamed as Raoul pulled her in for a hug.

_Let me be your light!_

_You're safe; no-one will find you!  
Your fears are far behind you!_

He led her further from him, and she followed, unthinking... loving.

Erik's breath caught in a sob in his throat.

_All I want is freedom,  
A world with no more night!_

_And you – _NO! -  
_With me, beside me._

_To hold me and to hide me!_

Erik stood by the unmoving statue, alone.

She took his heart from his chest, and stamped it into the floor as he stood on, helplessly.

_Then Say you'll share with me  
One love, one lifetime!_

_Let me lead you from your  
solitude!_

Erik's mind was screaming in agony as he watched, unable to do anything, refusing to let the brimming tears escape.

_Say you need me with you  
Here, beside you._

They were so close, once again the other side of the statue. They didn't know he was there, didn't know the _pain_ they were causing him.

It hurts. So much.

He couldn't help himself.

_Anywhere you go_

He looked out.

_Let me go too._

She was in his arms, and he was playing with her hair, both of them oblivious to the world around them.

Oh, it hurts.

It hurts.

_Christine, that's all I ask of you._

Please! Leave me be! I can't stand this anymore!

A tear escaped, and his breath caught in a sob.

_Say you'll share with me_

She pulled his arms around her, protecting her.

From _him._

_One love, one lifetime._

_Say the words and I will  
follow you!_

She turned in his arms, so slowly. Twisting the knife in his heart.

_Share each day with me_

They sang together... but her voice was _his_! She belonged to _him_!

Why does it hurt so much?

_Each night, each morning._

_Say you love me._

No.

_You know I do._

No.

_Love me, that's all I ask of you._

His hand caressed her neck.

No.

Their lips connected.

Erik's heart exploded in a wave of agony, and he let out a small moan, unheard by the couple.

He turned away, unable to watch as the kiss deepened.

Agony.

As he lifted her off her feet.

Pain.

As he span her in the air, their lips still connected.

Torture.

He peeked a look, and another wave of pain hit him.

They were still kissing.

_Anywhere you go  
Let me go too!_

Their voices were so filled with joy.

Why does it hurt so much?

_Love me, that's all I ask of you._

Erik sobbed quietly once more, leaning against the statue for support as his legs trembled.

_I must go.  
They'll wonder where I am._

Christine reminded Raoul.

_Come with me, Raoul._

They held hands as they made their way back to the theatre.

_Christine, I love you._

Erik's hand gripped the statue once more.

_Order your fine horses,  
Be with them at the door!_

_And soon, you'll be beside me._

_You'll guard me and you'll hide me._

The door closed, and Erik emerged from his hiding place, his heart in bloody tatters.

He staggered out onto the roof, gasping for air.

His gaze zeroed in on the rose – thorns removed, black ribbon tied around the stem.

It was lying on the floor, forgotten. A token of his love.

His legs collapsed and he knelt next to the small flower, his whole being trembling.

Agony.

He lifted the rose gently off the floor, holding it in his hands.

He gazed at it, the petals twisting over each other, a red maze of love.

He opened his mouth, his voice shaking, his eyes leaking.

_I gave you my music._

It hurts, mon dieu, it hurts so much.

_Made your song take wing_

His breath caught

_And now, how you've repaid me._

He twisted the rose in his hands, his abandoned love.

_Denied me and betrayed me._

His face crumpled, and he suddenly felt like a small child once more, lonely and unloved, sold off by his father, beaten and hated.

By all.

_He was bound to love you_

He raised his eyes to the sky, on the verge of tears.

_When he heard you sing_

_Christine..._

His voice cracked, and he couldn't continue, lowering his head and weeping like a child, holding the rose gently to his crumpled face, shaking slightly from the sobs wracking his body.

His eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking out from beneath the lids.

Why does it have to hurt?

An echo of voices wormed their way into his ears.

_Say you'll share with me_

_One love, one lifetime._

Erik raised his head, his mind fleeing from the pain.

_Say the word and I will follow you._

Him fleeing from the pain.

He crushed the rose in his hand.

_Share each day with me_

Rose petals floated to the floor, the red looking like blood on the crisp, white snow.

_Each night, each morning._

He began to shake in anger.

The Phantom looked out at the night.

He dropped the rose and ran forwards, to the edge of the roof.

He climbed the statue in the corner, his face raised to the sky.

_**You will curse the day  
You did not do**_

_**All that **_**THE PHANTOM  
**_**Asked of you!**_

He was the Phantom.

Erik was no more.

**

* * *

**

**i always nearly cry when i watch this part of the film... (i have never cried at a book/film. i tried, but i always yawn... its wierd.**

**Anyways, thanks for reading - Chapter 30 XD**

**86 reviews so far, in a year and a coupla months...**

**Shall we try to make it 70?**

**Thanks again :)**

**Oreal  
**


	31. Chapter 31

**okayy, i know its been ages... i have no good excuse.**

**Sorry. I've been busy with school and i just had no idea what to write for agesss... i still have no ideas for the next chapter, so... yeah...**

**oh. I still don't own phantom... but i do claim Henri and co. as my own!**

**Enjoy.  
**

* * *

**Chapter 31**

"_**CHRISTINE!"**_

Screams echoed round the chamber, hallowing and full of pain. Erik shot upright, clutching at nothing, tears flooding his face. He yelled out again, the dying images burned in his mind, causing his breath to pass through his lips ragged and staggered. The howls were torturous and painful to hear.

It was too late to change what had happened now.

Erik shuddered violently, muscles contracting and retracting as he rolled around the floor, his hands in front of his face tensed like claws. His mind fled from him again, his yells quietening and his muscles relaxing leaving him lying on the floor panting.

It was always like this after he awoke. The Phantom couldn't protect him at his most vulnerable – in his dreams, but just had to try and take over as quickly as possible after he woke, trying to ignore the haunting images engraved in his mind.

_Today_ he swore, _today, I'm going to do something about it._

He pulled himself to his feet, sighing before tugging a cover off one of the mirrors, the red fabric cascading to the ground in an avalanche of dust. He closed his eyes firmly, before slowly opening them to view the damage. His mask was missing, his mangled face red and swollen... but that was nothing out of the ordinary. His clothes were ripped in places where his hands had pulled at them, ripping the seams. His feet were bare, ten toes waving at him from where they stuck out under his trousers.

He would have to fix that... when he returned.

He turned from the mirror, thankfully, and hauled the fabric back over it, so he would not accidently catch a glimpse of the horror that was his repulsive body. His fingers fiddled with the buttons on his shirt, before he pulled it over his head, leaving it in a white pool on the floor. He then tugged at his waistline, pulling his trousers to the floor. He hooked a foot under the garments, and kicked them in the air, catching them easily. He threw them in a pile of dirty clothes he resolved to wash later, then turned to a clean pile, and replaced the identical clothes with a new set.

His last task was to slip his feet into a pair of black shoes waiting for him and to enter the gondola boat. He poled it across the lake with ease, his muscles rippling under the white shirt.

He flew up flights of stairs, up and up, to the surface of the ground, he ran, his black cape billowing around him like a shadow, his only companion in the dark life he lived. He emerged in the frosty sunlight, the cold air hitting him, his breath misting in front of his face. He hid his face behind a white mask and a low black hood, hanging down so all that was visible was his rosy lips, and the icy mist that protruded from behind them. His eyes trained on the pavement, every crack, every stone caught his eye as he walked out into the world.

A man hurried past him on the way to work, his feet hitting the pavement hard as he ran, and the Phantom twisted to dodge him, like an improvised dance move. The cloaked figure continued on his way until he reached the place that was his destination, and he finally raised his eyes from the uneven pavement.

His glove-clad hand emerged from under the cloak, and he pushed gently on the door in front of him, until it opened to show the interior of a small shop, the sharp smell of cosmetics wove their way into his nostrils. He strode confidently into the shop because this was the Phantom, and he was confident in all he did, and he was superior in every way.

He faced the man behind the counter who bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"How may I help you?" The professional man asked, and The Phantom lifted his hands, clad in black, and pushed back his hood to reveal his seemingly back hair, slicked back professionally and the confident eyes. And the white mask that covered up half of the handsome face that the man felt would be better if it were not covered. He gave off an air of confidence and wealth.

_Maybe a noble._ The man thought.

The Phantom looked down at the man in front of him. "Do you have any Eszopiclone?" he asked, having researched the best drugs to help insomnia – and to calm nightmares. The man in front of him frowned.

"Do you have a prescription?" he asked, causing the Phantom to draw the conclusion that he did.

"I am willing to pay. Do you have them?" he asked the man, who grudgingly nodded.

"I'm sorry monsieur, but I cannot give you the pills without a signed prescription from a doctor." The man stated, stubbornly refusing to lose his job.

The Phantom sighed internally. This was going to be a chore...

"Why is this so?" he asked politely, pulling out his skills as an actor – you could not watch them and evaluate them all day without being skilled yourself.

"There are side effects, that the patient must be aware of, and there are dangers that the patient must be willing to think of. You need to be examined, if there is no problem, then these drugs will have a terrible effect."

The Phantom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Then tell me what I need to know." He pleaded, setting his pride aside, and getting into character, his mind filling out his new details as he spoke.

"I cannot, monsieur, it is not worth my job." The Phantom decided to play on the man's sympathies, and allowed his eyes to tear up slightly.

"Please!" he begged, "I need a good night's sleep! I can't take this anymore" The man looked at him sympathetically.

"There's nothing I can do without a prescription. You need to be analysed that the ingredients will not react badly to you. These pills can be dangerous if taken in the wrong quantity."

"Then tell me the right quantity!" The Phantom pleaded. "I swear I won't do anything stupid!"

"I cannot trust you if I do not know you." The man protested. "I'm sorry."

"Then know me! My name is Phil, I have a wife, dear Charlotte. We have been married for seven years."

"That's all very nice, but I don't see-"

"Two children, John and Sammy." The Phantom let a small smile emerge on his face. "John will be starting school this year, he's gotten so big."

"Congratulations..." the man said, confused, "But-"

"Please." The Phantom returned, "Every night, I get but a few hours, I am afraid to sleep for the nightmares that await me. Charlotte is so worried, and she barely sleeps too, because I so often awake her with yells. Poor John is starting to suspect something, and little Sammy awakes from my yells. I cannot do this to them!" A tear escaped from his eye. "See this." He indicated the mask, "it's horrible, I can't help what I do to myself in my sleep – my fingers turn into claws!" he shook his head, "no matter how close I cut my nails." He sighed, a small sob shuddering through his body. "It kills poor Charlotte... I can't do this to her any more. I am lucky today it is not so bad, just a half mask."

The man looked stumped. "still."

"I am begging you, for my family's sake! My work is bad because I am too tired, and too scared to sleep. I am in danger of losing my job." He shook his head again, as if trying to get rid of an idea. "I'm scared we're going to end up on the streets. My baby..." his voice broke artfully, "oh Sammy... How will he survive? He's so weak!" he lowered his head, his body shaking with sobs.

He rose his head, his face covered in tears, right into the man's glistening eyes. "Please." His voice cracked, "I just want it to get better."

The man nodded silently, disappearing from behind the counter and going into a back room. The Phantom allowed himself a small smile in triumph, taking a deep breath.

The man came out from the back, and wordlessly handed The Phantom a box.

"Eszopiclone." He said, "One tablet at a time, once a day. Side effects are listed on the box." The Phantom nodded, smiling lightly. "How much?" he said quietly, almost hearing the breaking of the man's heart in front of him. "I swear I'll pay it."

The man shook his head. "No. Sort out your job, go back to your family. Look after yourself, Phil." The Phantom's eyes tore up again,

"No." He protested, "You are being too good to me. The least I can do is pay." The man tried desperately to deny another bout of tears.

"Three franks." He lied, and The Phantom heard the lie immediately, but Phil nodded, handing over the money.

"Thank you so much." The Phantom bowed his head and turned, exiting the shop, the door closing with a thud behind him. He pulled the hood of his cloak back up, and wiped away the fake tears.

_That was fun._ He thought _unfortunately, I could not have killed him; I will undoubtedly need more of these._ He clutched the box in his hand, _Thank God. Now I can have control again._

He re-entered the Opera House, to the sound of the Orchestra warming up, but he could not face anyone again, not yet. He would lull them into a false sense of security, plan out his moves impeccably. He _would_ have Christine as his wife, no matter who she was in love with right now – love was close to hate wasn't it? And she didn't hate him entirely... she would love him, even if he had to force it.

Henri woke with a start, an ominous feeling sweeping over him. He lay in bed for a while, thinking over the events of the last few months.

There was a quiet noise... persistent... what was it? The answer lapped at the edges of his conscious mind... he was sure he recognised it.

Of course he knew it!

He sat up suddenly, rising to his feet and slipping out of the room, a robe being pulled around him as he went. He walked down the corridor, the sobbing noise getting louder as he got closer to it. He caught a reflection of himself as he passed a mirror in the hallway, his blonde hair was scruffy where it had been slept on, and his eyes were full of worry.

He pushed gently on his mother's bedroom door.

"Mother?" he called out softly, "are you okay?" The sobs quickly quietened, and there was a scuffling noise on the other side of the door. Henri did not go straight in, because he was much too sensible for that. "Are you decent?" he asked, reluctantly.

He heard a quiet chuckle. "Yes, Henri." He pushed the door open, and saw his mother sitting in the middle of her bed, a nightdress on, her arms pulled around herself, to protect herself from flying apart. Henri walked slowly over to her, her grey hair was undone and fell around her shoulders, unbrushed and slept on, and her face was wet with tears.

"Oh Henri." She sobbed, as he sat down next to her, settling a comforting arm over her shoulders, causing her to lean into him. She shook her head, still sobbing. "I'm the mother, I should be comforting you, not the other way round."

Henri shook his head stubbornly, "I'm not sad at the moment, so I'm not the one that needs comforting." He reminded her, holding her gently in his strong arms.

They sat like that for a while, until his mother's tears had died into hiccups, and she shifted slightly. "Thank you." She said, "You shouldn't have to see me like that. You've been so strong through all this." Henri shook his head.

"Not as strong as you." He replied, quietly. "What's wrong?" he asked, "who do I need to kill?" he joked, his lips pulled back into a smile, the familiarity of it sending crinkles into the corners of his eyes. She smiled back sadly, swatting at him.

"Don't be silly." She protested, "I was just remembering something..." Henri cocked his head, silently asking. "Do you know what the date is?" she asked him.

"It's the fifth of October" he said, confused, "so?" His mother shook her head. "On this day, thirty one years ago... I gave birth to your brother." Henri smiled sadly, gripping her small hands in his larger ones.

"We will find him." He swore to her, his eyes glistening with promise, and she nodded sadly.

"I hope he's out there somewhere." She looked out the window. "I hope he's happy. Despite what we did."

Henri nodded, a frown on his face as a memory hit him...

_Finally, they were led into the tent. The boy was announced – once again – as the devil's child. Henri felt it a personal insult that they seemed to refer to his mother as the devil – for that's who's child it was really. He stayed in the corner, watching his brother from a distance. It was much the same as before, the weapon this time being a cane. It came down, again, and the bag was ripped off. Henri's eyes flashed in hate as he looked at his brother's captor. He had to do something! All too soon, the crowd was disappearing, and with it, his chance._

_Henri saw Erik's eyes flash with a hate similar to the one he felt in his own – but deeper. The final ballerina turned towards the exit - where Henri stood. He saw Erik untie a rope from the bars as his captor picked coins up off the floor. Henri saw the ballerina whip round at the sound of the rope. He watched, shocked, as Erik pulled the gypsy against the bars – fuelled by his hate – and choke the life out of him. A part of him was whooping at the attack, and he yearned to help as the man breathed no more. Henri made to move, as Erik stood – astounded by what he had done – but the young ballerina got there first. She unlocked the cage and grabbed Erik's hand, as Henri heard the gypsies coming. When they ran, Henri followed behind._

"A ballerina..." he said, softly... his mind working... "if only I could remember where..."

His mother looked at him questioningly. "What?"

Henri shook his head. "I don't know..." He rubbed her arm, before getting up and leaving the room, "but I'll figure it out." He swore quietly to himself.

The Phantom re-entered his lair, absent minded kicking a box as he passed it in frustration. He made his way into a side room, and ran his fingers through his hair – causing the wig to wobble, and he quickly straightened it with a sigh.

"Why me?" he asked the room at large, before stepping forwards and bending down over the fireplace – his lair was very cold at this time of year, because there was no heating this far down, so he was forced to keep a fire going 24-7. It was time consuming to say the least.

He prodded the fire with a poker, and set another log on it, making sure it didn't turn into dying embers. It roared in thanks, sending a wave of warmth towards him. He sat on the floor in front of the fire, thinking deeply.

_I deserve to have some good in my life, don't I? All I've had is hell and pain..._

_I'm so tired. Tired of this life..._

_Why God? Why?_

_Ha! There is no God. Or if there is, I am not one of His creatures. I will burn in hell, in death – just as I do in life._

_What did I do to deserve this?_

_If there _is_ a God, then it's His fault. Aren't Gods supposed to look after people?_

_I'm not just any old person..._

He ran another hand through his hair, and, annoyed, threw the wig off into the distance.

_Stupid itchy thing._

He climbed to his feet, rubbing his scalp, thankful for the slight relief. His fingers rose to the edge of his mask, and he fiddled with the crease, before sighing and leaving it on... he was not that comfortable.

_Do I not deserve comfort?_

He took the mask off in a flurry of movement. Then The Phantom turned away from the fire, and stormed at the Organ in the middle of the room.

_I will have My Christine._

_She will be mine._

_She cannot resist me... or my music._

_I will catch her with the music she so loves, and then she will love me. Because the music comes from me._

_She loved her angel of music._

He pounded on the keys, a full ink pot by his side, his quill scribbling viscously over the paper, minims, quavers, crotchets... even a couple of impressive hemidemisemiquavers... _Really_ fast notes.

He wrote the music, sliding it inside the folder marked 'Don Juan Triumphant', and he felt a wave of tiredness wave over him... it must be late.

He rose slowly from the organ, picking up the small box of pills. He made his way towards the fire, which had died down low from where he had not been all day. He threw another couple of logs onto it, and tugged a blanket towards him.

He grabbed a glass of water, and popped one of the pills out. He looked it over for a moment, before setting it on his tongue, taking a huge gulp of water.

The pill was swept away, and the Phantom's eyes immediately felt like lead weights, sliding slowly shut.

He saw the logs in the fire catch, the dancing flames flickering slightly behind his closed eyes.

Then he was swallowed by the darkness, his mind drifting comfortably into nothingness.

* * *

**there ya go.**

**Oh, and a note - in the last chapter i meant 90 reviews... i can do maths!**

**soooo close! im on 89 reviews. thank you so much for your support everyone!**

**Oreal  
**


	32. Chapter 32

**heya! This chapter didnt take too long to emerge I hope. I was going to upload it sooner, but i had exams to study for (woop woop) but they're over for now!**

**AND I WENT TO SEE LOVE NEVER DIES IN LONDON AND IT'S ABSOLUTELY AMAZING! ITS THE BEST MUSICAL I'VE EVER SEEN! THE SCENERY WAS FANTASTIC, AND I SIMPLY LOVE THE MUSIC! SERIOUSLY, IT WAS AMAZINNNG!  
**

**So here's your pressie! Chapter 32.**

**Oh, and I still own nothing...**

**though i DID get a photo with RAMIN KARIMLOO, THE PHANTOM IN THE WEST END OF LOVE NEVER DIES! so I've got that... YAY!  
**

**

* * *

Chapter 32**

The darkness was trying to hold him back as The Phantom swum into consciousness. He surfaced and plummeted a total of five times before he finally awoke fully, his eyes cracking open reluctantly to view the blurry roof of the lair. He brought his hands to his eyes and kneaded them, the pressure causing spots of light to blossom behind his eyelids. Slowly, he sat up and stretched, looking around.

His lair was as it always was, not an item out of place. He smiled to himself slightly – not a single nightmare! He shook his still-swimming head and launched himself onto his feet, stumbling and tripping over thin air, his body plummeting quickly back to earth.

BANG! His head connected with the floor, the fall having come so suddenly he was taken by surprise in his lethargic state. He groaned and rolled over, clutching his throbbing head between his hands. More slowly this time, he rose carefully to his feet, standing upright. His head span suddenly, causing him to stumble, and fling out a hand to support himself, which he smacked on the wall. He drew his hand to his chest, cursing loudly.

Slowly and carefully, he made his way away from the ashes in the fireplace, stumbling every other step and nursing his throbbing head and hand. He staggered over to the lake, and fell to his knees, resulting in another wave of dizziness, which caused him to rest his hands on the floor and breathe deeply, willing it to pass.

When he could think clearly once again, The Phantom sunk his hands into the icy water of the lake, gasping at the feel of it, and cupped them together, bringing them sharply back to his face, where his mask was an obstruction. He removed the mask and set it aside, once more splashing the cold water onto his face to wake himself up.

He also cupped some water into his mouth, swilling it about, then spitting it out, but it did not relieve the unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth, as if he had just licked an engine. His tongue cringed away from it, but his mind ignored it, as he stood up again, more slowly. He edged carefully towards the organ where his work lay, the half-finished opera _Don Juan Triumphant_. He pulled the work towards himself, and pressed down a few keys, thinking.

After a moment, he opened the front cover, and, in his neat, swirling handwriting, he wrote '_For Christine'_ in the cover. She was his inspiration, and she would be his lead.

He would have her!

His fingers pressed into the keys and he began to compose.

An hour later, The Phantom doubled over suddenly, a yell of pain escaping his lips. He dropped his hands from the organ, and clutched them around his stomach, which was sharp with stabbing pains, coursing through him. They were unrelenting, again and again they struck, a pained tear shone in Erik's eye as he clawed at the skin, trying to get it out.

_Get the knife out!_

It was The Viscount! He was sure of it! He could feel him, the dagger twisting in his gut – he was dying, surely, there could be no other explanation for pain this severe, this intense!

Then it stopped, and The Phantom bent over, breathing deeply, his eyes shut tightly, a single tear track on his face. What had just happened? He checked the skin around his stomach, it was unblemished, intact. He had not just been stabbed...

So what had happened?

The Phantom shook his head stubbornly – it was nothing, he must have imagined it, or it was a memory that had hit him... perhaps...

He turned back to the music, the lair once more echoing with music so terrible and yet so intense.

Eventually, his stomach roared in complaint, and The Phantom rose from the organ, and staggered into another room, his mind full of melodies. He opened a cupboard and tugged out a loaf of bread, squinted at it, then sighed. He turned away, and picked up a knife, sliced off the green mould that grew on the bread, then cut some mould-free bread off, and ate it hungrily. He was quickly full, a result of little food throughout his life, which left him tremendously skinny – yet the amount of exercise he did toned his muscles up well.

He wrapped up the bread again, and placed it back into the cupboard, and exited the room once more. The world suddenly lurched on its axis and The Phantom staggered, his hand flying out to give him some balance. It slammed into the floor, quickly followed by the other. The Phantom stayed on all fours, his mind whirring, his adrenaline pumping.

Perhaps it was time to get some sleep if he was suffering – maybe it would calm his raging headache – which was undoubtedly from where he had fallen that morning.

He crawled over to the fireplace, and drew the blanket around him, downing the eszopiclone in one. His eyes slid shut and he was out immediately.

The next morning, he was woken more quickly by his pounding head. He let out a low moan and clutched it with his hands, flinging the mask from his face, as it was an obstruction. Slowly, as if the weight of the world was upon them, he eased his eyes open. His lair stared back at him, unmoving. He crawled steadily towards the lake, and upon reaching it, plunged his face under, willing the pain to cease. His face steadily went numb, and he pulled it back from the water. He drew in breath sharply, and his chest burned.

"Ahh!" he cried out, his eyes widening at the new pain and his hands flew up to cover it. His chest was burning, there was a fire inside of him, building, it was unbearable! Beyond agony, it was gripping his heart, clutching it in its fiery grip, tighter, tighter.

There was no escape! He threw himself into the lake, the icy water wrapping around him, and causing him to endure another blast of fiery hell. He burned internally as he shivered in the icy water, splashing himself in the chest, but with no good results.

Suddenly, it all stopped. His head stopped spinning and his chest stopped burning. Suddenly, he was looking at the world as if through a dream. The water swilling around him was no longer icy, he could not feel, could not think. He stared up at the shore as a woman entered, from the room with the swan bed inside it. She approached the shore, but did not look at him, as he gazed at her.

It was Christine.

She danced through the room, spinning as if on stage. Dancing for him...

Then she turned away, her smile bright and she waved at an unseen person.

Then she was gone, fading out as if she had never been there.

He heard her laugh, tinkling like music, wrapping around him. He could not move as a pair of hands settled over his eyes. The voice he would recognise anywhere washed over him.

"Guess who?" and then he found himself turning, looking into her eyes, and she stood immediately in front of him, so close he could count the number of eyelashes framing her chocolate brown orbs. Her gaze dropped to his lips, and she leaned forwards.

And was gone, faded away, her touch gone as if it was never there.

Then he felt it again, her soft hand tracing his face from behind. She drew him round so he was facing the shore once more, his clothes dripping – but he didn't care. She smiled, and it was only for him. Her hand clutched his face – his mask-less face... but he didn't care. She brought her hand slowly, teasingly down his chest, and held it there, over his heart.

"Angel." She breathed, and then she was gone again... but he could still feel her touch on his chest, it was strong... so strong, it was burning.

And suddenly, feeling returned, so suddenly The Phantom staggered, falling onto one knee, his head going under the surface of the suddenly icy water. He struggled to rise back to his feet, panicking. His head spun, he couldn't tell which way was up.

Then suddenly, his head broke the surface and he gasped, the shock stunning his lungs.

He stumbled onto the shore, shivering down to the bone, his teeth chattering so hard it was painful. It _was_ painful, his stomach suddenly soared with stabbing pains, causing him to release a cry of pain. He was thirsty, so thirsty, but the pain was so intense he could not move. His arm! He clutched it to himself as a sharp spike of pain shot down it, ending in the tips of his fingers, as though it had literally burst from him, slicing his hand open. His head throbbed, ached, it was as though it was being repeatedly smashed with a chisel.

His leg twitched in pain as an arrow of agony accelerated down it, breaking out of the heel of his foot. His cries of pain echoed back off the ceiling.

Every muscle was on fire! There was no escape. It was consuming him!

His head throbbed, his stomach clenched, then contracted, a pain shot up his back. His eyelids slammed shut with the force of a battering ram as a carriage seemed to slam into him, knocking him against the floor. He writhed in agony as shots of pain consumed him.

Again

"**ARGHHHHH!"**

And Again

"**NOOOOOOOOO!"**

And Again

"**!"**

And Again

"**I CAN'T-!"**

And Again

"**PLEASE!"**

And Again

"**MAKE ITTTTTT STOOOOOOOP!"**

And Again

"**ARGHHH!"**

And Again

"**KILL ME!"**

His cries slammed off the roof, echoed off the lake as the poor man lay, tortured, battered and bruised on the floor, tears streaming down his face, his body occasionally twitching.

He sobbed as the pain finally let him go, and he lay there, terrified to move, in case it returned.

He heard a soft voice. A soft hand caressed his face, "Shhhh." Said the voice, "I'm here. It'll all be okay."

"Christine?" he croaked, prising his eyes open. She knelt before him, worry sparkling in her eyes.

"I'm here." She said, comfortingly. "I'm here for you, Angel."

The tortured soul raised one hand to her face, and made to trace her skin, but as his hand reached her, she disappeared. He let loose a great sob, and ignored his headache as he continued to cry as if his life depended on it.

"I can't do it." He whispered, "I can't do it without her."

Henri flung open the window, the cool winter breeze swirling around him. He smiled out at the crisp sky, the spinning snow. It swirled round the buildings, letting a little light filter through.

He turned smilingly to his mother, who returned his youthful grin.

"what's got you all happy then?" she asked him, curiously.

"I don't know." He said, truthfully "there have so far been no leads, and this day is much the same as yesterday."

He sighed, "yet I feel something is about to happen."

Madam Dupet smiled lovingly at him, and pulled him into a hug. "let's hope so." She said into his chest.

Henri approached the front door, where a couple of letters lay in front of it. Watched by his mother, he bent down and scooped them up in one hand. He sliced open the first one, and read it with a sigh.

"Nothing." He said, the grin sliding off his face, "and I was so sure." He turned away from the door, sadly.

"Wait." Madam Dupet said, softly "what about the other letter?"

The Phantom pulled himself towards the long-dead fire. It was better he just got some sleep, he supposed. He didn't know how long he had been lying there, his body convulsing every now and then with cold.

He coaxed the fire into existence, and curled up in front of it, gazing into the flames. He reached for his sleeping tablets, and pulled out a packet.

Suddenly gripped by inspiration, he set the pills aside, and tugged out a small sheet of paper. He unfolded it.

_Common side effects can include:_

_-Unpleasant bitter or metallic taste  
-Headaches  
-Chest pain  
-Cold-like symptoms  
-Pain  
-Dry mouth  
-Daytime drowsiness  
-Lightheadedness  
-Dizziness  
-Upset stomach  
-Heartburn_

_Less common side effects can include:_

_-Rashes  
-Itching  
-Incoordination  
-Swelling of the hands, feet, ankles or lower leg  
-Painful or frequent urination  
-Back pain_

The Phantom swore, then ripped up the offending sheet of paper.

"WHY ME?" he shouted to the room, drawing the blanket around himself, and trying to ignore his throbbing head. He winced as a sharp pain shot through his stomach. "Why me?"

He closed his eyes reluctantly, and his head swam between dream and reality.

That night the nightmares returned.

Henri tore open the second letter, and read aloud.

"_Dear Madam Madeleine and Monsieur Henri Dupet._

_You are cordially invited to the Paris Opera House's annual Masquerade Ball!_

_We hope to see you there!"_

**

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**

**Voila! There you go! Chapter 32. What do you think?**

**I'd like to know - any pointers, just tell me!**

**THANKS!**

**Oreal  
**


	33. Chapter 33

**Oh my god! i'm so sorry! There is no excuse... well there are several... but i could have written this a number of times, but I didnt get round to it... It's my longest one yet... I feel so bad! I've even had it planned for ages!**

**Sorry! :(((**

*******STILL OWN NOTHING!*****  
**

* * *

**Chapter 33**

Erik swum in and out of consciousness over the next few days, eating little (not that he ate much in the first place) and squirming in discomfort as the nightmares continued to ravage his mind. His yells were somewhat diminished after a while, and his voice grew hoarse. And finally, finally, his tormented body threw up the last of the tablets and his strength began to grow.

Rising out of a seemingly endless sea of pain, Erik opened his eyes. His lair looked clearer than any of his other brief moments of lucidity. Testing his boundaries, he pushed himself into a sitting position, his head barely even swimming. Coughing slightly, he pulled himself to his feet, and took several staggering steps. He forced a deep breath down his throat, the cool air swirling into his lungs, and out again. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead and felt it bone dry, and mask-free.

Looking around, Erik spotted his mask and pressed it gently to his face, his mind calculating... he needed to know the date.

The Phantom left the lair on more confident legs, a hopeful plan forming shape in his head.

Henri sat cross-legged on the floor, his mother in front of him. An uncommon smile graced his lips, giving him the look of a much younger man. His mother, sadly, had no such luck, as her smiles simply deepened the lines cobwebbed around her mouth and eyes.

"Merry Christmas, Mum." Henri grinned, handing her a present, which she took happily in her arms. She carefully unwrapped it, taking great care not to rip the paper, slowly uncovering a new cloak from her son. Her eyes lit up and brimmed with love as she looked at her son. "Thank you, Henri." She said quietly, fingering the rich fabric.

The Phantom stole through the darkness like a cat, silently, and with emerald eyes glowing in the darkness. He made it to the surface, where the distinct lack of noise left him slightly confused... he left via an outside exit, pulling the hood of his cloak up, but there were barely any people around. It was not a common occurrence for the streets of Paris not to be teeming with life, even in this cold weather.

The Phantom made his way through the snow, a series of closed shops greeting him – _what was happening? _He found a newspaper left, half buried in the snow, yet it must be today's or it would have been cleared away. He shook the snow off it, a swirling blizzard falling to the floor, and his eyes settled on the date – 25th December.

That explained a lot, The Phantom thought, his eyes scanning the empty area, it was Christmas, and everyone was at home with their fami-

_Anyway..._ he thought desperately, dismissing that train of thought just as soon as it touched upon him. _That means I have..._

_Merde!_

_One week! It will be pushing it... and I hate working to a limit... but it must be then, three months from my disappearance, they will hold the ball, and the managers cannot say no!_

The Phantom ran back to his lair, sitting down immediately at the organ, pulling _Don Juan Triumphant_ towards him. It would be his masterpiece, and Christine would sing in it... it would be everything he wasn't, amazing, beautiful...

How could she not love him on this? He was writing her an opera, and she is the inspiration, and the lead.

And he would win her.

Whether she wanted to or not.

The Phantom lost himself in his music, melodies conjuring about his head, his mind full of fantasies of him and Christine...

_Bodies twisting..._

_Lips caressing..._

_Hands touching..._

_Minds merging..._

_The Point of No Return._

The final notes echoed round the almost empty lake, and The Phantom wearily pulled the music towards him, after several days of composing, it was finally finished, and he had but two days left to prepare, before it would be the night of the New Year's Masquerade!

The next morning, The Phantom threw of the nightmare quickly; there was no time for such nonsense. He rose to his feet and strode off to the third cellar, four stories up, where most of the old costumes were kept, and not many people visited.

He entered the dark room, his eyes keen and quick, seeing and hearing nobody. He walked in confidently – after all, it was _his_ opera house, and so, by default, _his_ clothes. So he felt no repercussions as he knelt by the first box and prised it open easily with his muscular arms. Wishing he had brought a torch with him, he squinted into the box before standing and lifting out the top costume.

_Dress... no way._

_Dress... no way._

_Skirt... no way._

_Waistcoat... no._

_Baggy trousers... maybe._

_Shove in unwanted clothing._

_Next box – Hamlet... interesting._

_Doublet and hose... no I refuse to look like a sissy._

_Top hat... no, it wouldn't fit over a mask._

_Boots... maybe, they look interesting._

_Hey, stage makeup, if it's not too old, this could come in handy._

_Wooden sword... that reminds me, I need to practise, you never know, the Viscount may prove a challenge if needed._

_Dress... no way._

_Bonnet... don't make me laugh!_

_I don't want to know what _that_ is!_

_Stuff unwanted clothing back into box, and carry on._

_New box... The masque of the Red Death... perfect..._

On the top of the box sat a white full mask, which would leave just the mouth showing, nestled in a sea of red fabric. The Phantom grinned, his eyes manic. He took off his white half-mask and replaced it will the skull one, and pulled the strap round the back of his head, it fit perfectly.

He pulled out the cloak under it, a vibrant red, down to his knee. He slid an arm in, and the sleeve was just the right length. Resting the fabric back in the box, The Phantom set the black boots on top with the stage makeup and the skull mask, making sure his regular one was in place.

He left the baggy trousers behind him as he lifted the box and trudged down to his lair, panting slightly at the weight. Looking at the lake, he raised his eyes to the gondola, before deciding he wasn't going to go suicidal right now, and approached his lair through the side entrance round the edge (also, the dry route).

Finally, he emerged as if from out of the wall in the middle of his lair, setting the box down carefully on the floor, and removing his shoes, jacket, shirt and trousers, casting a furtive glance round first to check he was alone, and stood there, shivering slightly in nothing but his undergarments, the flickering light from the candles bathing him in a sort of glow, his muscles hard, his bones sticking out slightly from malnourishment. Ignoring the chill, The Phantom removed the boots from the box, followed by the makeup, mask and jacket. Underneath sat a pair of smooth, red trousers, tight fitting and vibrant, gleaming in the light.

The Phantom pulled on the red trousers, fitting tightly around his legs and hips, but coming up a couple of inches above his ankle. Cringing, The Phantom quickly pulled on the black boots, which came almost up to his knee, and picked up his black belt with a sheath for his sword and fastened it, the black contrasting with the red, giving off a dark aura that complimented his personality. The Phantom then tugged on the red shirt, followed by the jacket, which he fastened at the top and left flowing at the bottom.

Pulling a cover off one of the mirrors, he eyed the effect... something was missing... He grabbed a black cravat and fastened it around his neck, tucking it under the shirt... better... but still... he glanced into the box, which was empty and sighed, fingering the red fabric of the cloth covering the mirror.

Sudden inspiration had him throwing the fabric over his shoulder and fastening it into a cape.

Of course! His mask! The Phantom swapped masks quickly, feeling slightly foolish and grabbed the stage makeup. He would have to blacken his eyes, he thought, there was a slight bit of disfigurement showing through the right eye socket. He couldn't have that.

And the final touch... he grabbed his sword, flourishing it slightly at the mirror and nodding in acknowledgement. It would do.

A few hours later found The Phantom striding backwards and forwards in front of the uncovered mirror.

_Madames et Monsieurs... no, too formal..._

_Fond Greetings to you all... no._

_Have you missed me?... not to start._

_Why so silent, good monsieurs?... yes._

Gesticulating wildly, The Phantom spoke aloud to the empty room...

"A few instructions just before rehearsals start..."

And mutters...

"Throw score at their feet... draw sword like _so_... yes, I think that works."

"Then dramatic exit and BOOM! They won't know what hit them."

Smirk.

Henri stood in front of a mirror, frowning at his reflection. "Mother, I am _not_ wearing this!"

Madame Dupet's head appeared in the doorway. "Oh Henri! It's perfect!"

Henri scowled. "Please, mum."

Madame Dupet just smiled. "Do it for me?" she pleaded, entering the room completely, a gold dress draped over her figure. "It's just right. And you'll have a mask, so nobody will know it's you. Anyway, lots of people will be wearing things like that."

Henri looked at himself despairingly in the mirror.

"But-"

"No buts. You'll wear it."

"I don't have a choice... do I?"

"No, not really."

Sigh.

The Phantom stretched, and cracked one eye open, ready to greet the new day... and recoiled in horror.

"How the _Hell _did you get there?" he asked incredulously, scrambling backwards as fast as he could, until his head hit a wall. His heart was thumping at a thousand miles an hour, and his whole body was shaking.

The horse whinnied and snorted at him, stomping a foot at him. The Phantom saw his clothes in a pile dangerously close to where the horse was standing. "Oh no..." he muttered to himself, holding his hands up in front of him.

"Good Horsey." He said calmly, "Come this way... Follow Erik." He walked backwards slowly, and the horse walked towards him, nudging him with his nose. Erik gingerly patted the horse, and took hold of the manes carefully. "Now... how on earth did you get here, eh?" he asked it, patting it on its side. He frowned and checked the horse over, it was bone dry.

"How _did _you get here?" his tone was even more surprised as he looked towards where the other entrance was and found it shut. He shook his head at the horse in astonishment, running an absent hand through his ruffled hair. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror. "Okay, well never mind how you got here, it's time to leave." And he pulled on the horse's mane.

The horse didn't move.

Erik tugged at the horse. "Move!" he urged it, but the horse just snorted in his face. He folded his arms. "fine." He commented "don't move. See if I care." And he turned from the horse and walked towards his clothes, which were folded on the side.

WHAM! A sudden jolt caught him from behind. _That bloody animal! _The Phantom just had time to think before...

SPLASH! A shock of cold water enveloped him, and he surfaced, spluttering, shaking the freezing water out of his face. He staggered back to the shore, shivering, to see the horse standing there, whinnying at him.

"Bloody-!" The Phantom kicked the wall in anger. "I will not let you mess this up for me." He told the horse sternly. "No. I will not."

He turned from the horse, pulling off his wet clothes, and towelled himself dry by the fire, eyeing the horse warily. The animal looked at him innocently as if to say _what? Me? What could I do?_

Erik rolled his eyes and turned from the fire, walking back to where his costume lay. One eye on the horse, he tugged it on as quickly as possible, securing the cape, but leaving his mask off.

Approaching the uncovered mirror, The Phantom was careful not to look deliberately at the disfigurement marring the right hand side of his face. Carefully, he raised the makeup brush to his face, closing his right eye. Just a few centimetres around each one would work, right?

He carefully brushed the black against his eyelid, and circled it gradually wider. Then he opened his eye as wide as he could and brushed it ever so carefully underneath, just a little closer...

_NEIGH!_

Erik's heart jumped into his throat and his whole body jolted at the sound coming from just behind his shoulder... how on earth did he not see the animal there in the mirror? And as fate dictates...

"MON _DIEU_!" The Phantom cursed, his hand flying to his eye. "MERDE! THAT BLOODY ANIMAL!" Startled, the horse backed off, and The Phantom aimed a kick at it, swearing loudly, one hand still pressed to his eye.

Slowly, he lowered his hand to reveal his eye, water streaming down from it, sending black tear marks all down his face.

"Why me?" he muttered, walking over to the lake and rubbing the black off his face. He would have to start all over again now... because of that... _Animal!_

Speaking of which...

The Phantom looked around. "I don't believe it..." he muttered, his eyes taking in his lair.

The horse had gone.

Madame Dupet and Henri Dupet stood before the Paris Opera House, an annoying memory niggling at the back of Henri's mind, but he couldn't quite place it.

His costume didn't seem too much out of place, what with all the gold around them, and one of the managers had a cockerel hat on... and what was that man trying to be? Covered in black and white pompoms... madness!

Rolling his eyes at the people surrounding him, Henri took his mother's arm and strode inside.

Erik stood out of the way behind one of his secret entrances, the music bleeding through to him.

_Masquerade! Paper faces on parade!_

It was his song...

_Hide your face so the world will never find you..._

He clutched _Don Juan Triumphant _in one hand, his sword resting at his side.

Show Time.

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**what do you think? let me know? pleeeease? I read some with people asking for 20 reviews before updating... i only get a few, and they really do make my day!**

**Thanks!**

**Oreal  
**


	34. Chapter 34

**Oh my god. I know! I can't believe its been so long! Im sorry!**

**And it's probably going to be ages again, because im lazy like that... im really sorry, ive been meaning to update for ages!**

**Anyway, here is the waited for Masquerade... if anyone is still alive out there!  
**

* * *

**Chapter 34**

Henri and his mother entered the grand dance hall of the Paris Opera House, instantly surrounded by dancing couples, and joyful music.

_Masquerade! _

_Look around, there's another mask behind you!_

Henri bowed to his mother, who gave a returning smile, and with the practised ease that came from many years of dancing, they spun gracefully onto the dance floor.

_Masquerade!_

_Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you!_

They passed a happy couple, the lady in a graceful pink dress, her brown curls cascading down her back, her partner in a formal jacket, his blonde hair tied back in a black ribbon, their eyes only for each other, their smiles secret. In their minds, there were only them.

Henri noticed the glint of an engagement ring hung around her neck, before the instant was lost and they disappeared into the crowd.

_Masquerade!_

The Phantom stepped forwards to the top of the stairs, revealing himself, his eyes dark and dangerous behind the contrasting stark white of the skull mask covering his face.

One by one, the guests noticed him standing there and fell silent, their eyes wide with terror, and in many cases, confusion.

Henri blinked in surprise. Who was this? Not one of the managers? No, they were there, eyeing him with a deep fear and hatred. Henri's brow furrowed, and he went to step forwards, but his mother's hand was tight on his arm and as he looked back, she discreetly shook her head. No.

The Phantom eyed his audience with superiority in his gaze, in his posture. They were below him. Every step was purposeful as he walked down the stairs, slowly but steadily, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. His gaze swept over them, before settling on the figure of Christine at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes more worried than any other. _No, do not fear me, my angel._

Henri shivered as The Phantom's gaze washed over him, cold and hateful, and unrecognisable.

The Phantom's mouth opened, and a well practised speech flowed out, full of contempt and anger.

"_Why so silent, good monsieur's?  
Did you think that I had left you for good?"_

A small smirk appeared on his face, sarcastic and mocking, not reaching his eyes.

"_Have you missed me, good monsieur's?  
I have written you an Opera!"_

Henri's eyes widened in surprise. They so feared this person – he could tell from their wide eyes, and tentative defensive stances. And he was musical? Surely he should be accepted in a place such as this? He frowned slightly, trying to sum up the man in front of him. It felt as if he should know them, but the answer hovered tauntingly just out of reach. His eyes homed in on the black folder The Phantom held firmly in his left hand. This, Henri supposed, was the Opera he had mentioned.

Written all by himself? Not possible...

"_Here I bring the finished score,"_

The Phantom held the black folder up, and all eyes fixed onto it, a mixture of fear, intrigue, contempt and excitement lighting up the faces in the crowd.

"_Don Juan Triumphant!"_

In one fluid move, The Phantom threw the black folder onto the floor, and drew his sword. How had nobody noticed that? All eyes abandoned the folder and fixated on the sliver of silver glinting in the candlelight, held confidently and professionally in The Phantom's right hand.

'Maybe this person is more dangerous than anticipated' Henri thought, his own hand drifting to his belt where his sword usually sat. A curse hovered on his lips as he felt the empty space on his belt.

The Phantom's smirk widened as he took in the crowd around him, feeling confident, in control.

"_Fondest Greetings to you all.  
A few instructions, just before rehearsal starts."_

Henri frowned at the matter-of-fact tone in which this was said. Surely he was not a manager, no Firmin and Andre were there, eyeing The Phantom with anxiety and trepidation.

The Phantom felt Triumphant as The Viscount left Christine's side, his eyes warily watching the blade – he had forgotten his sword. And his rooms were not close by. Everything was working out perfectly.

The Phantom turned his blade to Carlotta, the simpering soprano.

"_Carlotta must be taught to _Act_,"_

The Phantom hid his joy at Carlotta's offended expression, but went right on.

"_Not her normal trick of _strutting_ round the stage."_

As Piangi, Carlotta's _faithful_ male lead stepped forwards to defend her, The Phantom took great joy in turning the blade on him and stopping him in his tracks, his eyes widening and fixating on the blade The Phantom now pressed against his stomach.

"_Our Don Juan must lose some weight.  
It's not healthy in a man of Piangi's age."_

'Ha!' The Phantom thought as Piangi was rendered silent, his mouth hanging open as if he intended to catch flies with it. He turned from him, confident he would not interfere with the rest of the instructions.

Henri cursed himself for forgetting his blade – he felt naked without it, out of control, unable to defend anyone. At least this _Phantom_ had not actually harmed anyone...

"_And my _managers_ must learn."_

The Phantom's voice was full of sarcasm as he strutted over to where Andre and Firmin were standing, their stances defensive, but unprotected. The Phantom leant on his sword, and eyed the managers confidently as they determinedly met his gaze.

"_That their place is in an _office_!"_

The Phantom pointed his blade at each of them individually, and Firmin's eyes crossed as he looked at it, and Andre took a large step back, gulping.

"_Not the arts."_

The Phantom wore a slight smile, his eyes slightly mad at the power coursing through him. This was the way it was supposed to be. He was in charge, He was superior, They all obeyed _him_!

His head turned.

His eyes searching where he knew she was.

He would not hurt his Christine.

She was safe from his anger.

"_As for our star!"_

He sheathed his sword, to banish her fear. She must know he would not hurt her. He loved her.

"_Miss Christine Daae."_

His eyes softened as he looked down the remaining steps to where she stood at the bottom, her chocolate-brown eyes gazing worriedly into his green stormy ones. She took his breath away.

But she still looked afraid.

He would not hurt her! How could she not know that? Could she not see the love shining in his eyes?

But he knew what to do. His mask hid most of his expressions, and he took a deep breath, and continued, the sarcasm weaving its way back into his tone.

"_No doubt she'll do her best,  
It's true, her voice is good."_

"_She knows, though,  
Should she wish to _excel_."_

"_She has much still to learn."_

The Phantom looked down on her, his voice flowing with passion, his eyes slightly mad, possessive... He reigned over them. She _had_ to do what he said. She was _his_! His voice rose, every eye on either him or Christine, standing alone at the bottom of the stairs as he spoke more to her, and made his way down the stairs.

"_If _Pride_ will let her return,  
to me."_

She couldn't hide it any longer. He was the one who taught her. He would _finally_ get credit for her voice.

"_Her teacher."_

The next line was for her alone, reminding her. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"_Her teacher."_

Do you remember me? You loved me once. You cared for me. You _trusted _me. Your Angel of Music.

Don't forget your angel.

Henri's feet refused to move as he took in the _pity_ filling her eyes. Why? It was not hard to see the love in his... But was it love? Or obsession?

Tears glinted in her eyes, connected so firmly to his. Not looking away, just watching him stand there, panting slightly, passion in his gaze.

'Danger!' Henri's mind screamed at him. 'Danger!'

Christine's feet seemed to have a life of their own too, but instead of rooting her to the ground, they carried her up the steps, as The Phantom took the last few down them, meeting in the middle.

And Henri's mother felt connected to this man... but how?

And Henri so wanted to look away from a moment that seemed so private. So special.

The Phantom drank her in, his gaze sliding down off her face and onto her neck, where there sat a ring on a chain – _A secret engagement_ – and his heart broke again – how many more times would this have to happen to him? But he refused to give in to it, and The Phantom consumed him, and controlled every nerve in his body, and his hand reached out and grasped the ring.

And fury consumed him.

And he ripped the ring from around her neck, the chain snapping, the resulting noise unheard under The Phantom's shout of fury.

"Your chains are still mine! You belong to _me_!" And Henri's feet jump started as The Phantom ran up the stairs, and with a swirl of a cape and a flash of flame he vanished into the ground. Henri ran forwards, over-taken by Raoul de Chagny – now with a sword – and the Viscount dropped through the hole in the floor.

Henri was on his heels, and as he jumped, the floor closed... sending him tumbling to the floor, all eyes on him, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he leapt to his feet, stamping angrily where the man had disappeared to. He looked up, just as Madame Giry ran from the room, knowing exactly what resided under that floor.

The Phantom stood in his hall of mirrors, just out of sight, away from Raoul, who, his eyes terrified, swung his sword with increasing fervour and fright. Fifteen Phantoms mocked him from all directions, and a noose hung just over his head, sending him in more and more desperate swings.

A hand pressed against his shoulder and Raoul swung round, his sword swinging through the air, and his breath releasing in a gasp as he took in the sight of Antoinette Giry, who led him out of the room.

The Phantom cursed her and turned from his hunt, and fled to his lair, his strides becoming longer and longer, his speed faster and faster, until he was flat out sprinting down the familiar passageways, his breath coming in gasps, his limbs shaking.

He exploded into his lair, a feeling of utter loneliness crashing over him, and he hung on determinedly to his fury, his gaze flashing red, his muscles bunching as he went into Christine's room, tearing down the green curtain hung over her bed, and throwing it onto the floor.

His muscles were ignored as he hooked his fingers underneath the bed he had spent hours carving and _strained_, a grunt escaping him as the bed tipped over, landing with a huge crash on its side. The Phantom whirled around, his hand curling into a fist and he punched her mirror – where he could not see himself in it accidently – and it smashed into an explosion of white, raining down upon him, tearing into his clothing, his glove shredding, and he felt glass embed itself into his hand.

He kicked the desk, sending a dull thunk echoing around him.

He span out of the swan room, upturning a metal candle-holder, sending it clanging to the floor, bouncing a couple of times before rolling to a stop.

The Phantom ripped back another curtain, revealing the Christine mannequin, her white wedding dress cascading around her like a waterfall. He raised his arms, grabbing her shoulders, and gripping them with all his strength. He went to rip them off, but paused, his mind rebelling with the red haze as he looked into the plastic Christine's face, so alike to the real thing, and his claws retracted, letting go of her arms.

Erik fell helplessly to the floor, ignoring the stabbing pain that shot through his hand as he landed on it, and the glass forced its way more firmly into his skin.

It was only then, he realised he had tears streaming down his face. He looked down at his unhurt hand to see that it still grasped the engagement ring he had ripped from Christine's neck.

She was _his_. How could she not see that?

She had betrayed him... He loved her, and she didn't love him back.

Erik gasped as the realisation coursed through him, sending another stabbing pain through him, this time in the chest. He held the engagement ring to his heart and curled his hand around it. Hard.

His breaths turned into gasps as more tears cascaded down his cheeks, congealing behind the mask, sending streaks of black down both his skin and the white of the mask.

"Why, Christine?" he sobbed into the unforgiving air.

"_**WHY?"**_

Henri's mum went over to Henri, her gaze comforting, but confused. Henri whirled round to face the group.

"Who was that?"

And little Meg Giry stepped forwards, to where Henri was standing and placed a small hand on his arm, turning him from the place where there had been a hole in the floor.

"But surely you have heard of the Phantom of the Opera, monsieur?" Henri's eyebrows raised.

"Not merely a ghost story, then?" he asked her calmly.

"No, monsieur. The Phantom is a man, monsieur. A murderer, monsieur."

Henri's instincts flared, and he growled "a _murderer_?"

Little Meg took a step back.

"Yes monsieur. He killed the stagehand, Buquet. Probably because he was telling stories about him to the ballet girls. He probably didn't like that, monsieur."

Henri's rage engulfed him. "That is no excuse!" he shouted, and the crowd winced. "And you just let him _stand_ there, and boss you about. And you didn't do anything!"

Meg shook her head. "No, monsieur. If you anger The Phantom, he will kill you too." Her eyes shone with sincerity and fear.

"But who is he?" Henri asked her, his hands gripping her arm, and she turned her head from him.

"Nobody knows, monsieur. He has been here as long as I have, monsieur, and I was born here."

An idea niggled in the corner of Henri's mind.

"He must have been brought here as a child then?" He asked, "But why was he hidden?"

Meg Giry shrugged. "If what Buquet told us is true, it is because he is hideously deformed, monsieur."

Henri's eyes widened, and his mother stood beside him.

"Deformed?" she asked the ballet girl, whose eyes snapped to hers, and she nodded.

"On his face, Madame. That's why he wears a mask." She whispered, and Henri released the girl with a gasp, turning to his mother.

"You don't think?" he asked her, his eyes wide. "He's still here?"

"Still?" his mother asked him, "He was brought here?"

Henri nodded, "when he escaped from the gypsies." His voice was in a whisper, and him and his mother stood merely centimetres from each other.

Meg watched the conversation with confusion, her eyes wide and uncomprehending. She could barely hear their words any more.

Henri's mother looked both fearful and ecstatic. "He is a musician." She whispered.

"And a murderer." Henri reminded her, and her eyes filled with worry.

Madame Dupet's eyes scanned the room, before falling on the black folder Andre had stepped forwards and retrieved and was now reading through, his forehead crinkled into a slight frown.

"I think we should watch that Opera." She told Henri, her eyes returning to his, sparkling with held-back tears.

Henri nodded. "I think you're right."

**

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**

**I know i don't deserve it, but I'm not sure if I did this alright... Did it work?**

**Please review...?**

**Oreal**


	35. Chapter 35

**hi. Apologies for the extremely long wait. I have just had my GCSE exams (last one was today! Yay! No more exams, 'til next year!) so I told myself I was going to concentrate on them for the moment, instead of things like this.**

**Anyway, here it is (I told you I'd have it by the end of today, FallenStar22 =D)**

**Incase you'd forgotten, I thought I'd update you on 'so far':**

**Masquerade Ball has happened, Christine has been told she is the lead is The Phantom's production of Don Juan.  
The Phantom has found out about Christine and Raoul's engagement.  
Henri and his mother have decided to watch Don Juan when it comes out.**

**I think that's the main points. Still own nothing. Enjoy.  
**

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**Chapter 35**

The sun was just emerging over the horizon on the streets of Paris, and scarcely a person moved, many still snoring in a drunken stupor from the previous night's celebrations. And deep under the city, an unknown underground lake resided in constant dimness, unaware of the blossoming light in the above city. Lines of candles stood proud in the unseen lair alongside the lake, the only light flickering, the shadows caught in an endless dance, reflecting off the still, icy waters of the lake... eerie.

A solitary man – was it a man, or a ghost? Could it possibly be real? – paced across the floor, his catlike feet silent on the cold floor. An occasional sigh whispered across the cavern, spinning off across the lake, before dying in a diminuendo.

The man turned and strode off the other way, his white mask flickering, almost seeming alive in the dim light. His thin, blonde, greying hair was hidden under a black wig, which almost seemed real as it clung to his scalp with remembered accuracy. Another sigh died across the waters, and the man raised a hand to rub at his face uncomfortably.

His other hand swung at his side, a small ring clutched tightly in a fist, a chain hanging out and desperately reaching towards the floor in an impossible bid for escape. The intricate ring was cutting grooves into the man's hand, but he showed no sign of pain, scarcely an outward sign of emotion...

"_WHY?" _The sudden shout was startling as it bounced horribly around the cavern before dying in echoes. An accompanying **crash!** echoed after it seconds later as the Phantom kicked out at an unsuspecting mirror, sending the pieces of glass spinning to the ground and laying there, still and innocent.

The Phantom stopped, and stood, glaring out at the lake, his green eyes a tumultuous storm, anger and fear emanating off him in waves. His next sound was a whisper, as he unwillingly gave in to the pain coursing through him.

"How could you do this to me?" His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped, and his clenched fist slowly unfurled to reveal a diamond-encrusted ring, almost embedded in his palm. He appeared not to notice as his vision blurred and a single, salty teardrop fell onto the ring, sinking into it. The ring slipped out of his grasp and fell to the floor with a loud **clang**, as the man pulled in a shaking breath.

"All I ever did was love you." He breathed, his voice cracking. "And you don't even want that." His breaths shuddered. "Is it that hard? That hard to just... accept it?" He dashed at his visible eye with the back of his hand, before pulling off the mask and revealing the disfigurement, and dashing at that eye, too. He took a deep breath, and calmed himself, his finger tracing over the raised skin on the right side of his face, and nodding to himself. "Of course it is..." he muttered, "Who would think a monster could ever love?" And raising his head, he set the mask back into place, bent down and picked up the ring and turned away, to set it carefully on the side.

"Of course it is."

Christine sat on the plush sofa, her delicate head resting comfortably against Raoul's shoulder. Her eyes were closed, and he gazed softly into her face, a small smile crossing his lips as he brushed a lock of hair away from its obscuring position. He bowed his head, his lips ghosting across her forehead, and her eyes opened slowly, her lips pulling back in a delicate smile as she looked at him lovingly.

Raoul gazed down into her face for a little while longer, his expression calm, his eyes soft.

"I love you." He breathed so quietly it was almost unheard, but Christine's smile widened, and she hooked a hand up over his head to pull him down into a soft kiss, his smile evident against hers.

"I love you too." She returned softly, and his hand rose to cup her cheek, softly stroking the delicate skin.

"You see?" He said, his voice melancholy. "You see what we have? It's beautiful... _You're _beautiful."

Christine smiled widely, her heart fluttering in her chest, and nodded, humming softly in agreement.

"And-" Raoul paused, gauging her reaction. "You see what he's tryin-"

Christine sighed. "Raoul, don't, please. I can't."

Raoul protested, "Christine. You can't resume lessons with him. It would be improper for one –"

Christine snorted. "Like he cares-"

"Exactly! You would be giving him what he wants."

"I don't want to upset-"

"I don't want you to go."

"But Raoul!" Christine cried in protest, rising to her feet "Listen to me. He's helped me my whole life."

Raoul frowned, "how old is he exactly?"

Christine ignored him. "I can't just let him down, not when he's done so much for me."

Raoul shook his head. "He's dangerous."

Christine protested, but Raoul spoke again over her "You're not going, and that's final. I am your fiancée, and if I say you don't go, you don't go."

Christine bowed her head sadly in submission. "You're right. I know you're only looking out for me. I apologise."

Raoul hooked a finger under her chin softly, and brought her face up to look at him. "I love you." He said firmly, and Christine nodded, her eyes sparkling with tears.

The Phantom paced behind the wall, his footsteps impatient, his hand running its way through his hair. Every now and then he gazed through the wall to the empty chapel, before sighing and resuming his pacing. What was visible of his face was creased into a frown, and his palm still felt an echo of the imprint of the ring.

The _boy_ was her fiancée – Erik blanched – sure, but he was her angel first. He had guided her throughout her entire life. Was she about to throw that away? He looked out at the empty room. She was late. He breathed deeply, refusing the weakness. There had to be a reason. Maybe she was far away, maybe she had lost track of time. She _knew_ they were to have a lesson; he had left a note on her desk that morning.

Where was she?

Pacing. Impatience. Back and forth. Back and forth. Time passing.

Surely she would be here by now?

_Half an hour._

She wouldn't abandon him?

_An hour._

Would she?

_Two hours._

She had. She had abandoned him. Just like everything else in his _stinking _existence.

The Phantom kicked out at the wall, pain shooting through his foot. He growled, and welled up. He had forgotten everything for her. He loved her. God, did he love her. It hurt, physical pain in his chest. His heart was shattering, scattering all over the floor. All because of that _boy_.

He would never – _could _never – love her as much as he.

He loved her when he first heard her sing. Loved everything about her.

The way her eyes sparkled with mirth, the way her hair cascaded down her shoulders. He loved the graceful way she moved, and the beauty of her dance, the incredible _rightness_ of her song.

He pressed his head against the wall, calming his breaths. He took a deep breath.

**(So she dances – Josh Groban)**

_A waltz when she walks in the room,  
She pulls back the hair from her face_

He pulled his head back from the wall, his eyes deep in thought as he sung.

_She turns to the window  
To sway in the moonlight  
Even her shadow has grace_

His lips curved slightly into a smile as he closed his eyes, swaying slightly on the spot.

_A waltz for the girl out of reach  
She lifts her hands up to the sky  
She moves with the music  
The song is her lover  
The melody's making her cry_

_So she dances  
In and out of the crowd  
Like A glass_

_This Romance is  
From afar, calling me  
Silently_

Footsteps stalled outside the room, Raoul paused, his thoughts of confronting the 'angel' hesitating slightly. The Phantom did not hear him as he rested his hand on the wall barring him from the world, consumed by his own thoughts.

_A waltz for the chance I should take  
But how will I know where to start?_

The viscount frowned slightly as he stood frozen outside the door.

_She's spinning between  
constellations and dreams  
Her rhythm is my beating heart_

The Phantom took his hand from the wall, throwing his head back and belting out the song, letting the music consume him, pouring every emotion into it, feeling his love fill him up until he could barely stand it.

_So she dances  
In and out of the crowd  
Like a glass_

Raoul took a step back, slightly overwhelmed by the emotion this monster held for his fiancée. It couldn't be right. It wasn't natural. A monster could not love.

_This romance is  
From afar, calling me  
Silently_

Erik took a deep breath, tears filling his eyes as he thought of her and the viscount. How could she do that to him?

_I can't keep on watching forever  
I'd give up this few just to tell her_

Erik's voice lowered again, softly singing to himself, and, unknowingly, Raoul.

_When I close my eyes I can see  
The spotlights are bright on you and me  
We've got the floor  
And you're in my arms  
How could I ask for more?_

Erik felt empty and terribly alone as his arms yearned to hold, to be held. His heart screamed for love. His wounded soul cried out for no-one to hear. He fell to his knees, staring at the empty space before him and wishing it was filled. He wrapped his arms around himself.

_So she dances  
In and out of the crowd  
Like a glass_

_This romance is  
From afar, calling me  
Silently_

_I can't keep on watching forever  
And I've given up this few just to tell her_

Raoul began to back away as Erik hummed began to hum, his figure slumped behind the wall, his head bowed.

The humming died away, and The Phantom knelt there, his heart pounding, his mind racing, his breathing heavy.

"Why can't I love you?" his voice cracked slightly. "Why won't they just let me love you?"

Rehearsals were underway for the new – maybe not predicted – production of The Phantom's _Don Juan. _The band was frowning at their new music, and the dancers were pulling on their shoes under the strict eye of Antoinette Giry.

Christine sat next to her fiancée, sheet music clutched in her hand, a small frown on her face as she read down the lyrics of _Point of No Return_. Was that appropriate? She had lived here a long time, and wasn't sure the upper class, sophisticated society that frequented the opera house would be very impressed with the risqué lyrics.

Raoul gazed around protectively, his eyes wary. He had had a long time to think about the Phantom's song, and decided (after not hearing the hypnotising vocals for a while), that the 'love' he held for his fiancée was disgusting. After all, he was how old? If he had been tutoring Christine since she was seven, he had to be at least ten years older. And while that sort of age gap was accepted by noblemen, by someone as lowly as a man who pretended to be a ghost? It was disgraceful.

He thought back to the meeting he had had with Madame Giry, where she had told him about the 'opera ghost', and how she had rescued a little boy from a fair when she was just a child herself... it proved the man was human. And his music... if a little haunting... held true emotion.

If a man had emotions; if a man could bleed, he could be killed. He would see to that.

Raoul's grip tightened around Christine, poor, naive Christine, who looked up at his protective expression and smiled, not knowing the dangerous thoughts buzzing around his head.

The band started up slowly, violins singing, trumpets flaring, organ pounding. She smiled at the familiarity of it, and started humming the tune to her first piece.

_You had to admit_, Raoul thought, _even if I hate the guy, he really knows his music._

Erik winced at the unfamiliarity of the band with the music, and sat back in his box, a quill set to paper for any necessary notes. And _ouch_, someone needs to tune the second violin.

That singer is flat.

Christine is perfect.

The dance is too simple.

Piangi still needs to lose a lot of weight.

Carlotta is no longer lead; she needs to stop acting like she is.

_O.G._

_One week later_

The dancers are still out of time.

Don Juan cannot turn his back to the audience whilst singing.

The pianist cannot keep up – he needs to practise more.

Piangi _still_ needs to lose weight.

The backdrop needs to be worked on.

The costumes need to be started. _Diagrams enclosed._

Carlotta needs to step down.

_O.G._

_One month later_

_Someone shut the infernal diva up!_

The band is slightly out of tune with each other.

The violins aren't reaching the high notes quite right.

I have modifications to the dancers' costumes. _Diagrams enclosed._

Christine needs to be more centre stage.

The dancers are not graceful enough.

I expect it to be of a better quality in a weeks' time.

_O.G._

The Phantom let the letter float downwards into Antoinette's outstretched hand. His masterpiece was not pulling together as perfectly as he had seen it. His music was phenomenal, of course, but the band and singers – except Christine of course – were determined to disallow it to flourish the way it could.

It could be _so much better_ than anything this Opera house has ever seen.

And not just that.

The Phantom has big plans for this performance.

Plans that not even Carlotta Gudicelli could mess up with her grating characteristics.

He was going to win.

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**Thanks for reading. Review?**

**Hope you enjoyed it. Apologies again for the rediculously long gap between the last chapter and this one.  
**

**Oreal  
**


	36. Chapter 36

**hey! I know I coul have written this sooner, but hey... Im on holiday! Yay no more work! (except for A level preparation :/)**

**So here ya go! Chapter 36! and please answer my small questionnaire on where you would like this story to go at the bottom!**

**Thanks! I own nothing!  
**

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**Chapter 36**

The Phantom stood silently behind the mirror. It was laughable, really, how the viscount thought he could protect Christine from him by standing guard at her door (well more sleeping than standing, which made it even more ridiculous). The Phantom does not enter and exit through doorways. He enters through walls and mirrors and exits dramatically through the floor, or vanishes from sight, his tricks hiding himself immediately from your sight.

But Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, Angel of music, Opera Ghost, was not thinking about that at the moment. As he stood behind the mirror, his eyes gazing upon Christine's sleeping form, his eyes were soft and sad, his fingers splayed upon the barrier between them.

She was so beautiful when she slept. Her soft features free from torment, or worry. Her breathing slow and controlled, Erik mimicked the pace with his own breaths. The worry lines occasionally marring her perfect forehead were smoothed out, her brown curls splayed out around her like a halo, showing her for the angel she was. Erik watched as she cracked open an eye, his eyes widening as she rose from the bed to her feet, gazing out of the window.

And suddenly, the Phantom knew what she was planning, and, as she slowly cracked the door open and crept past the slumbering Raoul, The Phantom turned from the mirror and ran – silently, always silently – through the catacombs, emerging into the dark night near the carriages. Hiding behind a pillar, he saw Christine make her way outside – thanking the stars she had thought to bring a shawl – and heard her speak to the driver.

"Where to?"

"The Cemetery."

Of course she was going to the cemetery, The Phantom grinned darkly to himself. This was his chance. She was unsure whether or not she believed in her angel any more... He would bring back her beliefs, and she would be his!

Watching the driver strap the horses to the carriage, The Phantom waited for the opportune moment, his heart pounding lightly, his eyes alert, his weapon balanced carefully in his hands. As he went to attach the horse, The Phantom struck him in the back of the head, knocking him to the ground and quickly finishing the job of attaching the horse to the carriage. He swung himself up into the drivers seat, covering his head with a hood, and tucking his sword out of sight.

He sensed, rather than saw Christine approach the carriage from behind, and felt his whole self tense up, willing himself to stave off his excitement. He half turned as she sat in the carriage behind him, careful for her not to see his mask, but her eyes were looking right through him, deep in thought as she gave the command.

"To my father's grave, please."

Shaking the reins, they set off at a walk.

Henri watched his mother staring blankly out of the window, his forehead creased in worry.

"Mother?" he said softly, and she jumped slightly, shaking her head.

"Yes, Henri, what was it?"

"Are you well?" he stepped forwards, to take her hand in his, "you have been sitting here all day."

Madame Dupet sighed softly, her eyes downcast.

"I am so sorry for what has happened, Henri. Our lives have been a little bit of a farce haven't they?"

Henri slipped his arm around the older woman, "what do you mean?"

She shook her head, her eyes sparkling with tears. "I can't believe he would do this to us." She muttered.

Henri frowned "You mean Erik? We never treated-"

But Madame Dupet shook her head. "No, not Erik. Everything he has done I take the blame for. I should never have treated him the way I did. No, I was talking of your father."

Henri hissed slightly.

Madame Dupet sighed. "When I married him, he was so sweet. Always kind, always thinking of me, putting me first. I loved him. Oh, how I loved him."

A tear slid its way down her face. "And I thought – I thought he loved me too. And maybe he did for a while... Until Erik came." She shook her head. "I blamed Erik for his change. I had done nothing wrong, and he hated me for bearing a child he believed was sent from Satan himself. I thought, when I had you, it would be better, and he did love you... oh, so much. But he still hated me, I think."

Henri held her close, "and that's why I turned my head. I believed that if Erik was gone, he would love me again. He would forget. And I still loved him, after everything. I loved him when he drank, and I loved him when he would hurt me... I think, had it not been for you, I might have stayed. Whatever he'd done... If your life was not in danger, I would have never left. And I'm so sorry. I wanted to hate him. God, did I want to, and I think in some way, I did... but I loved him too. But I had to make sure you were safe.

"I wanted to believe he would go back to what he used to be. The kind, grateful, loving husband... but it was too late. And he finally saw the truth with his dying breaths... I think he regretted it, hating us, blaming us... I want to believe he was still good." She looked at her son with damp cheeks. "Do you think that he still had a good spark in him... or was the man I fell in love with gone, before he was really gone?"

Henri shook his head. "I do not know, mother. He seemed cruel, but that might have been the alcohol. You were right to leave, though. He would likely have killed you. But I think, I think he did love you."

Henri stood, holding his mother's hand. "Come. I have an idea."

The Phantom guided the carriage through the woods, his mind formulating a plan. A plan that would make Christine his at last. She could not resist him, they belonged together, and the music they would make would last forever.

She could not resist his voice, alluring and dark and perfect, his voice could command her to stay, could charm her into loving him once and for all.

Henri helped his mother into a carriage and sat himself in the front, yanking the reins and the horses pulled them away from the house.

Half way through the wood, Henri spied a horse, galloping desperately towards the cemetery, the man on its back strangely familiar. He carried a sword, and rode bareback, his blonde hair streaming out behind him.

Then Henri remembered. It was the viscount from the masquerade, who had drawn a sword and dropped into the hole in the ground after Erik. Henri wondered what he was doing there, his eyes crazy, riding the horse as fast as he could, as if his life depended on it.

The white horse and its rider vanished into the wood, and Henri followed its path more slowly, towards the cemetery and where his father's grave lay.

Erik stopped the carriage outside the gates to the cemetery, and allowed Christine to climb out, gazing up at the cracked statues, the weathered gravestones. The Phantom shook the reins once more and moved off, round the corner, before climbing off the carriage – it was not important – and running.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, and Erik reached the shrine of Gustave Daae, bending over to catch his breath in front of it for a second, his ears straining to head Christine approaching... nothing yet...

He tugged on the metal gates, wrenching them open, and then sliding them closed again, tying his rope to one of the gates – his lasso – and climbed over the shrine, so Christine would not see him.

Henri arrived at the graveyard, slightly surprised to see another carriage there, abandoned. Shaking his head, he tied their horse to the gate, and turned to help his mother out of the carriage. Shaking, she emerged, looking out at the graveyard with trepidation. Was her husband buried here? With all the cracked, miserable looking statues?

Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed, and Henri and Madame Dupet made their way into the cemetery, to the surprising sounds of soft singing.

**(Wishing you were somehow here again – Andrew Lloyd Webber)**

_You were once  
My one companion,  
You were all that mattered._

"Come on", Henri hissed, not wanting to disturb the young lady, "I think it's over here with the newer ones." Madame Dupet nodded, turning her face away from the soft music.

_You were once  
A friend and Father,  
Then my world was shattered._

Her heart hurt for the poor child singing so sadly, and she walked away from her, edging her way towards the other graves, the singing still audible in the distance.

_Wishing you were somehow here again  
Wishing you were somehow near_

Madame Dupet knelt down at Monsieur Dupet's grave, brushing the snow from her grey hair, and brushing her hand over the stone. She did not say anything, just listened to the music, and stared sadly at the small grave that showed all he had lived for... a small, marble tombstone, and 6 feet of dirt as your sky.

_Sometimes it seemed,  
If I just dreamed,  
Somehow you would be here!_

The music started fading slightly, as the girl got further away, and Henri turned his head in the direction it had gone, Madame Dupet rising to her feet and turning away from the tombstone. Looking at each other, they began to walk in the direction they had heard the music disappear.

The Phantom raised his head as the soft sound of singing came to him on the wind, and he closed his eyes to hear his angel better.

_Too many years,  
Fighting back tears  
Why can't the past just die?_

His heart ached for the pain in her voice, the tears in her song.

He would fix her. He would replace her father in her heart, and she would love him.

_Wishing you were somehow  
Here again  
Knowing we must say  
Goodbye._

_Try to forgive,  
Teach me to live  
Give me the strength to try!_

Henri heard the voice again, louder, more emotion straining it, and he crept closer.

_No more Memories,  
No more Silent tears,  
No more Gazing across  
The empty years._

_Help me say  
Goodbye._

_Help me say  
Goodbye!_

The singing stopped, and Henri stopped walking, looking at his mother. What were they doing? It was not their place to interfere with another's mourning.

He turned to walk away, but stopped as another, a man's voice, sung through the night.

His mouth hung open, his eyes wide, and he stopped in amazement at the beauty of the silken voice.

**(Wandering Child/ Angel of music – Andrew Lloyd Webber)**

_Wandering Child,  
So lost, so helpless.  
Yearning for my guidance._

Madame Dupet span on her heel, gazing through the spiralling snowflakes in the direction the voice had come from. Who was it?

_Angel or Father,  
Friend or Phantom,  
Who is it there, staring?_

_Have you forgotten your Angel?_

Henri and his mother gasped at the word Phantom... was it?

It couldn't possibly be?

_Angel, oh speak,  
What endless longings,  
Echo in this whisper?_

What was he doing?

_Too long you've wandered in winter,_

Erik tugged on the rope, pulling the gates to the shrine open.

_Far from my fathering gaze_

Christine: _Wildly my mind beats  
Against you_

Phantom: _You resist yet_

_Your soul obeys!_

The Phantom's heart pumped hard in excitement, the adrenaline coursing through his system. He was going to win.

Christine would be his at last!

_Angel of music,  
You (I) denied me (you),  
Turning from true beauty_

_Angel of music,  
Do not shun me (my protector)  
Come to me (your) strange angel._

Erik's voice darkened and his eyes shone with glee.

_I am your angel of music!  
Come to me angel of music!_

Henri and his mother stood, gobsmacked, before a rumble of hooves and a shout of "No! Christine! Wait!" snapped the aforementioned diva out of her trance.

"Wait!"

Raoul leapt off his horse, drawing his sword and ran to Christine.

"Raoul?"

"Whatever you believe; this man, this _thing_ is not your father." Christine watched in confusion, and Henri and Madame Dupet shared a glance.

With a _roar_ of fury, the jilted Phantom leapt from his hiding place above the shrine, sword drawn, right on top of Raoul, clashing swords with him.

The Phantom threw his cape back, and flourished his sword angrily. Lunging forwards, he stabbed the blade towards the viscount, who sidestepped out of the way, meeting his sword with a _clang_. Furiously swiping, their swords danced around each other, the shrill screech of metal on metal echoing around.

Henri's hand flew to his waist and he swore aloud when he realised he had forgotten his weapon in the sudden decision. He could not help.

The Phantom and the viscount danced around the corner, slashing at each other, neither able to land a hit. The Phantom swiped his cape round, blocking the viscount's vision as he swung at him, and Raoul barely managed to stop the blade from slicing into him, leaping off a short wall into the snow below, stumbling slightly on the slippery surface, and falling into a gravestone, he winced and kept his weapon clutched in his hand.

Christine ran down the stairs in horror, her brown eyes wide with fright as the two men she loved attacked each other.

Henri and his mother watched from behind a tree, Madame Dupet's knuckles in her mouth to keep her from crying out, Henri's fists clenched in worry.

The Phantom leapt off the wall in a flurry of black with another roar of anger, his sword clutched tightly in his right hand. Raoul had managed to climb to his feet and raced off sideways, clashing swords with the Phantom around tall gravestones, occasional grunts of exertion and fury emitting from the two fighters.

Raoul rolled round a gravestone, his blonde hair damp from the snow.

The Phantom was forcing Raoul backwards, away from the grave of Gustave Daae, and he saw a chance, stepping forwards and shoving Raoul backwards over a tree branch splayed across the floor. The viscount went flying backwards, rolling back onto his feet as the Phantom swiped at the tree branch, sending a small explosion of snow into the air.

You could see both men tiring, panting hard from the exertion, but neither backing down, neither giving up. The Phantom was still strong with his fury, his madness.

There was a flash of sparks as Raoul trapped the Phantom's sword between a metal gate and his own sword, and the Phantom flung himself against the viscount, sending him stumbling, and freeing the Phantom's sword.

Cries of anger still echoed around, sparks flying as they struck sword against sword with lots of power behind each attack.

The Phantom ducked behind a gravestone, Raoul feeling less and less at ease as his eyes scanned where he had vanished, before he came barrelling out of nowhere, the viscount barely managing to parry his blow.

Furiously they swiped at each other, neither wanting to back down.

Whipping his cape round to block Raoul's vision, the Phantom struck a blow, cutting into the viscount's arm, and drawing blood and a yell of pain from the younger man, who stumbled and fell into the snow, the blood staining the snow a deep red colour, almost black.

Rising back to his feet, the viscount determinedly swung at the Phantom.

Both were aiming to kill.

Roaring, Raoul managed to force the Phantom back, whose white mask shone in the night in contrast to his black clothing, seeming more pure than the white snow still spiralling down around them.

Swinging madly, they struck against each other, and the Phantom struck from above, the viscount bending down, then straightening, his face set in a determined grimace. He pressed his sword against the Phantom's, pushing it sideways, to the ground, then stepping on it, forcing it out of the Phantom's hand, and kicking it away in a flurry of snow.

With a roar, the viscount drew his sword arm back, Erik lying vulnerable and open on the snow before him, his face deeply ingrained with a look of hatred.

He prepared to swing the sword down, to end the beaten man's life, and Henri gasped, and Madame Dupet started forwards, her eyes wide with horror, but they would not be able to stop him in time...

"No, Raoul!" Christine appeared at the viscount's shoulder, her face white with fear, and Raoul looked round at her.

"No." She said again, "Not like this."

The viscount turned around, looking back at the open target glaring up at him, sprawled on the floor.

It would be so easy. It would all be over.

Then he looked back at Christine, at her begging expression, her eyes wide with fear and horror. She could not bear it.

The Phantom's eyes moved from him to Christine, his breathing fast from the fight, his black wig untidy and all over the place – but miraculously still in the right place.

Stepping back, Raoul sheathed his sword, turning away to Christine, grabbing her by the arm, and climbing onto his white horse, pulling her up with him.

The Phantom sat up, his green eyes filled with fury and hate. He could not have been beaten!

He climbed to his feet as they rode past him, and turned to watch them, his teeth gritted in anger.

He swung his cape round, turning away from where Henri and Madame Dupet emerged from where they were hiding.

"Now." He swore in a low voice, "Let it be war upon you both."

Madame Dupet ran towards him, and Erik looked round at her. His eyes glinted.

"Don't think I won't win." He said to her furiously, seeing her as a stranger.

And then, before she had a chance to open her mouth, he was gone.

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**Woo! I have the next chapter written already (yeah! two in one day!) so it shouldnt take as long to upload that one... and I have the one after planned in my head... **

**Now... I dont really know where to go with this, so can I have your help?**

**1. Finish it where the film ends, or just a small bit afterwards (like an epilogue)?**

**2. Follow on with Love Never Dies? (which will probably take another 2 years :/)**

**3. Make an entirely new storyline where: A) Erik falls in love with someone else. B) he keeps chasing Christine (succeed/fail?) or C)he dies without a girl, but with his family/ brother?**

**Review with your favourite, please! When I have a few votes, I will upload the next chapter!**


	37. Chapter 37

**hello! So i got just 4 votes on my question, and the 4th was the decider!**

**I have almost finished Lonely Angel! There are going to be 40 Chapters, and I have just one more to write, so I will probably finish this just before the 2 year (O.o) mark :) thats taken me a while...**

**Anyway, enjoy this chapter!  
**

* * *

**Chapter 37**

Antoinette Giry was walking down a corridor the following day, accompanied by the managers, André and Firmin. Amongst them walked Raoul de Chagny, his face determined.

"We have all been blind." He told them, his eyes glinting with an idea, "And yet, the answer is staring us in the face." He looked ahead. "This could be the chance to ensnare our clever friend."

The managers stepped forwards, their faces shining with hope. "We're listening!" they assured him, "Go on!"

Raoul acknowledged their comments, "we shall play his game, perform his work, but remember we hold the ace. For if Miss Daae sings, he is certain to attend."

Antoinette's eyes widened, as the managers grasped his idea.

"We are certain the doors are barred." They said, "We are certain the police are there."

Raoul continued. "We are certain they're armed."

Together, they concluded their plan. "The curtain falls, his reign will end!"

Antoinette said nothing, her mouth agape slightly in horror. What was she to do?

Should she tell him of their plan? To prepare him? He was dangerous, and she should think of Christine, who was in danger if he continued... but she also thought of the little boy she had rescued, hiding him in the dark, watching his hope as she returned to him with a small amount of food.

She remembered the time she had saved him from drowning in the lake, the time she had watched as he swung through the opera house like it was his playground. She remembered him being there for her to cry on when her husband had died.

He was human, really. He'd just lost himself along the way. And she could not sit by and do nothing.

Determined, she turned from the group and made her way to her room, from which there was an entrance to the Phantom's catacombs, and a route down into the darkness she knew to get to the lake, and his home.

Approaching the lake, Antoinette heard the pull of violin strings floating across the lake to her ears. Smiling slightly, knowing she had made the right decision, she pressed the knob in the wall to allow her access to his lair.

Creeping through the darkness, one hand pressed to the wall, she walked through the passage, quickly reaching the other side, and releasing the catch to open the entrance.

She walked in, watching Erik's figure, a violin to his neck. His eyes were closed, and there was a look of bliss in his expression. His fingers danced up and down the fingerboard, his arm vibrating to create the beautiful vibrato sounds.

The notes were sad, like most of the Phantom's music, but of course, they were also beautiful, and brought a tear to Madame Giry's eye.

After a while, the Phantom took the violin from his neck and turned to face his old companion.

"Why are you here?" he asked her calmly, his gaze even with no trace of the madness that could rise at any time.

Antoinette looked at him levelly. "I need to tell you something." She said, "The viscount has a plan to... get rid of you."

Erik nodded, "of course he does." He said, sitting down. "It is nice of you to come to tell me. I was under the impression you disliked me. Would you not want me dead like every other person I've ever met?"

He said it so matter-of-factly, Antoinette sighed sadly.

"Life has not been kind to you, has it, Erik?" she said, and Erik smiled a little, mockingly.

"You could say that." He said, before waving his arm. "What was the plan?" he asked her, "That is, if you've come here to tell me and not to just gloat about it... I can find out another way."

Antoinette sighed. "You really believe that, Erik?"

Erik cocked his head. "I believe the world is against me, and it is a bad idea to get your hopes up, just to have them crushed, and getting your hopes up includes trusting people. I don't trust anyone. But I am grateful for what you have done for me, and I don't understand why you keep coming back."

Antoinette walked forwards before sitting down next to Erik, and placing a hand on his arm.

"Erik." She said, "You have done many things I do not like, and at times I have disliked your decisions... but you'll always be the scared little boy who needed someone to give him a helping hand. And I will never regret being that helping hand. You are like a brother to me. I regret some choices I have made with you; I think I should have helped you more. But I never, _ever_ would wish you hurt, and especially not dead."

Erik sat with his head bowed under the weight of the words Antoinette had just said. A part of him wanted not to believe her, he knew where he stood with people – he was a monster, and had to make his way in the world alone. Always alone. And he was used to that... even if he yearned for Christine, he knew she would not choose him by choice... he knew that if he wanted her, he would have to make it so there was no choice.

"I-" Erik's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

"What was the plan?" he asked, not prepared to deal with the onslaught of emotion brought on by his old... _friend?_ 's words.

Antoinette smiled slightly, and looked at his hunched figure, determinedly not looking at her.

"They believe you will attend the opera if Christine is singing." Erik nodded, of course he would. "They will be bringing in the police. Armed guards at every exit, prepared to shoot you by the time the curtain has closed. They are going to be barring the doors."

Erik nodded. And no doubt they would hunt him down, given the choice as well.

"Thank you, Antoinette." He said.

"Erik... try not to get hurt." The woman said, her sad eyes trained on the floor.

Erik smiled a little, taking her hand in one of his gloved ones, and squeezing it. "I will try." He assured her.

The last week of rehearsals was underway, and the opera had taken shape. The Opera Ghost was still leaving notes at the end of every rehearsal for Madame Giry to collect, but, mercifully, the number of negative comments was dwindling.

The managers were going crazy, planning this, that and the other, and tickets were running low.

Madame Dupet, and her son, Henri Dupet had already purchased their tickets, and waited in high anticipation for the show to get underway. They were to be there on opening night – the show was to be running for a month – and they were quite expensive... not that that was an issue, of course.

Many other rich Parisians had also purchased tickets to the 'Opera Ghost's Don Juan' – the story of the masquerade ball had circled like wildfire, and almost everyone in Paris knew what had happened on New Year's Day.

Antoinette was worried, as Erik had not told her of any plans of his to escape certain death. She had tried to persuade him not to come, but of course, he scoffed at that. Not come? How ridiculous. Christine was singing his work!

Erik, of course, _did _have a plan; he had just not told Antoinette what it was. He did not want to risk her safety in all this. He had spent ages making himself a costume – he could not go to the costume designer, and they were _his_ designs after all. He had spent hours cutting the fabric, and sewing the seams together, his forehead furrowed.

Of course, the mask was important. He had had this plan in his head a while – probably since before he started writing the opera, and everything was going perfectly. He had designed a mask that covered the disfigurement, on both sides, but left his mouth free. This was important.

But that was done now, and what to look forward to now was the future. He would make Christine his, and the viscount would be disposed of – he didn't have to die, Christine would just have to choose him. In fact, it would be better for him to live – then he would live with the knowledge that The Phantom had won. He had beaten him.

He would beat him.

But, _oh_, those two were infuriating. Christine and Raoul. Their _affection_ was disgusting. He was too false. He didn't really love her. She couldn't love him. No, not like he, Erik, did. Not like the Phantom did. Because that love was all consuming. It was desperate, and it was perfect.

He would write music about her. The Viscount wouldn't, the viscount would put her on his shelf, and hold her on his arm, and they would go well together... but it wasn't _love._ It wasn't right. Christine belonged with the music, belonged with him.

He, who would write her an opera, just to win her heart.

He who would sing her to sleep every day, just to watch her.

He, who would caress her with love, just to see her happy.

He, who would give anything to see her smile.

He, who would kill for her.

Was that not a show of love?

Was he not worthy of her love?

It was opening night.

The Phantom had not slept at all the previous night, had sat up, backstage, to make sure everything would go to plan. He had set everything up... there were just a couple of things he would have to sort tomorrow just before the performance, but it would be perfect.

The Phantom heard the gendarme arriving. The Police. He heard them marching, undoubtedly all armed with guns, all dressed in uniform, taking their jobs seriously.

But he would just have to mess it up for them, wouldn't he?

He knew it would be his last chance. But he also knew that this time, he would succeed.

The Phantom climbed into a space that barely anyone had been in before. It was backstage, sort of, but it held no props – there was no room! But there was a very useful pulley system that he approached, pulling it back, testing the rope, and taking down one of the chains... Now it was only the rope holding it up...

Henri stood before his mother, dressed in a smart suit, her in a beautiful dress, and smiled lightly at her, offering her his arm. "Shall we?" he asked, grinning at her.

Madame Dupet checked in her purse once more for the tickets, smiled at her son and took his arm. "We shall." She agreed, and they set off to the Opera House.

Christine was sat in the small chapel before the performance when Raoul found her. She was knelt by the candle with her father's picture underneath, and it was burning. She was already in her costume.

She half looked over her shoulder when he approached.

"Raoul, I'm frightened." Her voice cracked. When she looked up at him, her eyes shone with tears. "Don't make me do this."

She rose to her feet, breathing his name as he approached her, "Raoul. It scares me."

Raoul pulled her close, intent on comforting her, but not backing down... this was their last chance, she had to be brave.

Christine spoke again, "Don't put me through this ordeal by fire." Her breathing was shaky. "He'll take me." Raoul closed his eyes, determined not to stop this, but inside, he was petrified. "I know." Christine assured him, "We'll be parted forever. He won't let me go." Her voice was full of fear.

"What I once used to dream, I now dread. If he finds me, it will never end." She walked slowly towards the stain-glass window... "And he'll always be there, singing songs in my head. He'll always be there, singing songs in my head..." She sat down on the window sill, her eyes wide and frightened as Raoul approached her, sitting down next to her.

"You said yourself; he was nothing but a man." Raoul stroked her face, and brought his hands down to hold hers comfortingly. "Yet, while he lives, he will haunt us 'til we're dead."

Christine's head swam with indecision. When she next spoke, it was more to herself than her fiancée. "Twisted every way, what answer can I give? Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live? Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice? Do I become his prey? Do I have any choice?" her voice turned bitter.

"He kills without a thought! He murders all that's good! I know I can't refuse, and yet, I wish I could... Oh, God, if I agree, what horrors wait for me in this, the Phantom's Opera?" Her voice was scared and horrified, but slightly determined.

Raoul spoke comfortingly, "Christine, Christine, don't think that I don't care... but every hope, and every prayer rests on you, now." Sadly, the two embraced, their eyes sparkling with tears. Could Christine betray her angel? She had loved him once... she used to long for him... but he was bad, he was a murderer, and she knew that if he wasn't stopped, more people would die.

Down in his lair, the Phantom was putting the final touches to his costume, pressing his wig down and singing softly to himself.

_Sing my fate tonight,  
I hate to have to cut the fun short._

He pressed the designed mask to his face, hooking it round the back of his head.

_But the joke's wearing thin._

He lifted one of the small candles on his desk and turned towards the small stage he had in front of him with which he played around with the characters, seeing who would go best where, the best formations... but he would need it no longer.

_Let the audience in..._

He eyed the stage, set up for Point of no Return, and a small, mad smile dancing in the corner of his mouth.

_Let my opera begin!_

And he pressed the candle into the small stage, and stood back, the flickering lights from the flames licking up the sides of the stage reflecting in his deep, stormy green eyes.

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**Please review!**

**I love you all!**

**Oreal**


	38. Chapter 38

**Hello! I am here again, quickly this time :) I hope you enjoy my next chapter :) It's drawing to a close now :((**

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**Chapter 38**

Henri and Madame Dupet stepped into the Opera House, handed in their tickets to the man on the door and made their way inside.

They found their seats in row F, near to the edge, with a reasonably good view of the stage, the red curtain firmly closed.

Backstage, Christine stood, twisting her hands in nerves, her eyes darting forwards and backwards, seeing several gendarmes holding guns from her spot.

_Her poor angel... _Her mind fretted, before protesting against the pity she felt...

_No, he is a murderer!_

She steeled herself.

Antoinette stood, also wringing her hands. The gendarmes worried her... _oh, Erik, don't do anything stupid!_

André and Firmin sat in their box, opposite Raoul de Chagny, sitting in box 5 – the Opera Ghost's box... if he showed, he was dead.

Erik stood above the wings, in a secluded area with a good vantage point. He was tense with excitement. He was going to win! By the end of today, it would be over, and he would have Christine! His heart fluttered in anticipation, and he was unable to keep still with the adrenaline rushing through him.

The music began – a tricky violin solo – and the curtain rose.

The dancers moved onstage, pulsing forwards and backwards, before starting to sing.

**(Don Juan triumphant – Andrew Lloyd Webber)**

_Here the sire may serve the dam,  
Here the master takes his meat.  
Here the sacrificial lamb  
utters one despairing bleat!_

Madame Dupet raised her eyebrows... what was this? She looked around at the crowd, tutting in disappointment... this was not appropriate for the higher class of Parisians!

Carlotta stepped forwards for her solo.

_Poor young maiden! For the thrill  
on your tongue of stolen sweets  
you will have to pay the bill –  
Tangled in the winding sheets!_

Henri coughed... his _brother_ had written this? He was torn between embarrassment and feeling impressed... this was bold – he would _never_ have the nerve.

_Serve the meal and serve the maid!  
Serve the master so that, when  
tables, plans and maids are laid,  
Don Juan triumphs once again!_

Piangi entered the stage, strutting around, while Meg – Antoinette's daughter – danced round him, until he tossed her a purse, and she grinned in character, causing the audience to shake their heads at the obvious display of lewdness.

Piangi:

_Passarino, faithful friend,  
Once again recite the plan._

The actor of Passarino replied:

_Your young guest believes I'm you  
I, the master, you, the man._

Piangi/Don Juan:

_When you met, you wore my cloak,  
With my scarf you hid your face._

_She believes she dines with me,  
In her master's borrowed place!_

_Furtively we'll scoff and quaff,  
stealing what, in truth, is mine._

_When it's late and modesty,  
Starts to mellow with the wine..._

Passarino:

_You come home, I use your voice –  
Slam the door like crack of doom._

Piangi/Don Juan:

_I shall say: "Come hide with me!  
Where, oh, where? Of course – my room!"_

Passarino:

_Poor thing hasn't got a chance!_

Piangi/Don Juan:

_Here's my hat, my cloak and sword.  
Conquest is assured,  
If I do not forget myself and laugh!_

And with a dark cackle, Piangi placed a black mask over his eyes and exited the stage.

With a dark smirk, the Phantom leapt from the rafters, as Piangi looked up, gasping, the Phantom set his noose around his neck – but, with little time, he twisted the noose, Piangi struggling for breath, and placed a wooden spike in it, to hold it tight against the thrashing man's airways.

The Phantom looked up as Christine began to sing from the stage, and a predatory glint shone in his eye as he braced himself for his entry, his whole body shaking in anticipation. His victory was so close!

Christine/Aminta:

_No thoughts within her head,  
but thoughts of joy!_

The Phantom closed his eyes briefly to absorb the beauty of her voice, before opening them again and kicking Piangi out of the way as he prepared to enter the stage.

_No dreams within her heart,  
But dreams of love!_

Henri glanced sideways at his mother, who nodded. This was the girl they had heard at the graveyard... what was happening?

Passarino:

_Master?_

The Phantom/Don Juan:

_Passarino – go away!  
For the trap is set and waits for its prey!_

Passarino left the stage, and The Phantom entered in the back, the black mask hiding his face from Christine, trying not to let his hands shake and show his excitement. His eyes gleamed with adrenaline and joy.

As he began to sing, Christine looked up from where she was on the floor, how could she not recognise that voice? Her head screamed _danger!_ At her, but she was a performer... the show must go on... if a little more carefully. She braced herself, taking deep breaths and not looking at him yet.

_You have come here  
In pursuit of your deepest urge  
In pursuit of that wish, which 'til now  
has been silent... silent..._

Christine's heart raced at the sound of his voice, soft and silky, as it washed over her, she saw his finger cover his lips in a 'shh' symbol, and she swallowed, unsure, but entranced at the same time. She could never resist the beauty of his voice.

Henri and his mother sat in the audience, their eyes wide and enthralled at the new man's voice... it was familiar... it was _his_! Henri's body was on high alert... what was he doing? Was he supposed to be on there? ... Good _God_, was he an amazing singer!

_I have brought you  
That our passions may fuse and merge_

Christine found her eyes closing as she allowed the bliss of hearing his voice wash over her... how could she have ever denied him?

_In your mind, you've already  
succumbed to me,  
Dropped all defences, completely  
succumbed to me..._

Yes... Christine's mind hissed at her, Listen! You're his! You've _always_ been his! Don't resist!

_Now you are here with me,  
No second thoughts,  
You've decided... decided..._

Christine rose to her feet slowly, the gendarmes in the background, unaware of who he was, what was happening... She knew she had to remember the danger! But... his voice, it held her in a trance...

**(Point of no return – Andrew Lloyd Webber)**

_Past... the point of no return,  
No backward glances!_

_Our games of make-believe  
Are at an end!_

Erik's lips were curved into a roughish smirk, his eyes shining. Antoinette crept closer to the stage from the wings, her heart sinking... was he mad? But she felt she could not deny him... not when his voice was holding everyone in a trance, silky and smooth and perfect...

_Past... all thought of if, or when_

The Phantom walked toward Christine, like the choreography had said, and they begun to circle each other, their eyes firmly attached to each other, as if nothing else existed outside of them two.

_No use resisting!_

_Abandon thought, and let  
The dream descend!_

_What raging __**fire **_

The Phantom strode forwards quickly, drawing her close to him – him standing flush to her back, and she felt her body react, yearning for him to never let her go... hold her like that with such _passion_ for the rest of her life.

_Shall flood the soul?_

_What rich desire  
Unlocks its door?_

The Phantom ran his hand down her arm as he drew away, leaving her with shivers running down her spine... no! Come back!

_What sweet seduction lies  
Before us?_

His expression was predatory, hers enthralled, entranced...

_Past... the point of no return_

He willed her to understand... to see his love, his _need_ to have her.

_The final threshold! _

_What warm, unspoken secrets  
will we learn?_

Christine pulled away from him, blinking, desperate not to be sucked in, but unable to resist.

_Beyond the point of  
No Return._

The Phantom shook his head slightly, warning her it was not going to work...

It was her cue... Christine was worried... what was she to do? But, as a performer, she could not let it pass.

_You have brought me_

She looked up at where Raoul was sitting, watching. The Phantom followed her gaze... how could she think of the _boy_, when she was with him? His jealousy flashed, but he could not let it show... not here.

_To that moment when  
Words run dry..._

_To that moment when speech  
disappears into silence... silence..._

She sent a _look_ at Raoul, who nodded, glancing at the gendarme stood behind him. Raoul looked over at André and Firmin, who panicked slightly, bringing a gendarme into their box with them, as well.

_I have come here,  
Hardly knowing the reason why..._

She shook her head slightly at Raoul, but even as he reacted, she had already forgotten about him...

_In my mind,  
I've already imagined,  
Our bodies entwining,  
Defenceless and silent..._

Turning back to The Phantom, Christine let the shoulders of her dress fall sideways, revealing the skin of her neck, feeling the music, the lyrics dance under her skin, setting her aflame.

_Now I am here with you,  
No second thoughts...  
I've decided... decided..._

The Phantom eyed her warily, wondering if she was being genuine or not as she nodded at him and his heart began to pump faster.

_Past... the point of no return_

Christine begun to walk towards the back of the stage, a flirty look on her face, and, helplessly, the Phantom followed.

_No going back now!_

_Our passion play has now,  
At last, begun!_

As they both reached the bottom of alternate spiral staircases on opposite sides of the stage and began to climb, all else fell away, leaving only the two of them, their eyes only for each other, forgetting all else, for nothing else mattered now. It was just them and the music, and all was right.

Raoul's expression was mildly disgusted...

_Past... all thought of right or wrong  
One final question:  
How long should we two wait  
Before we're one?_

The Phantom watched her sing, hopelessly, his mouth dry, but seamlessly following the choreography.

_When will the blood  
Begin to race?_

_The sleeping bud  
Burst into bloom?_

The Phantom swallowed, his gaze turning predatory and intense as he watched her.

Raoul rose to his feet, his expression mildly horrified.

Henri stared at the stage, his mind a whirlwind of confusion.

_When will the flames at last  
Consume us?_

Both of them had reached the top of the stairs and gazed across the bridge at each other, the Phantom swinging his cape off his shoulder onto the rail behind him as he joined in the chorus, their voices melding together perfectly, starting to walk together.

_Past... the point of no return!  
The final threshold!_

As they reached each other, they desperately clutched at the other's arms, before determinedly following the choreography, the Phantom spinning her into his arms, and her breath came out in pants as she felt safe again, like she was in the right place, feeling protected, yet in danger and it was a whirlwind of anticipation and excitement and she never wanted that feeling to die.

_The bridge is crossed,  
So stand and watch it burn!_

_We've past the point of no return!_

The Phantom clutched her hands underneath his, and her head lay back against him, exposing her neck. You could cut the tension with a knife as everyone who had realised something was wrong (the cast, backstage and Erik's family) gazed fearfully up at the two of them holding the other one tightly. A gendarme approached the edge of the bridge backstage. The couple would not have noticed anything in that moment as they just felt the other holding them tightly, never wanting to let go, the adrenaline powerful in their blood, their breath shuddering unevenly.

The Phantom sung quietly into Christine's ear.

_Say you'll share with me,  
One love, one lifetime._

Christine's lips curved into a smile... forever like this? How could she refuse? Nothing ever felt so right.

_Lead me, save me from my  
Solitude!_

Raoul looked ill...

_Say you want me with you..._

Christine opened her eyes, thoughts spiralling through her head, beginning to remember... another had sung this to her once, had they not? She could not forget.

_Here, beside you..._

The Phantom spun Christine in his arms, so they were facing each other, his eyes desperately begging her, boring into her. The Phantom's voice rose until it was loud enough for the whole audience to hear.

_Anywhere you go,  
Let me go too!_

Christine's eyes filled with pity... the Phantom grasped it – anything! He clutched her hands between his tightly, tears filling his eyes with emotion.

_Christine!_

Christine rose her hands to his face, her heart pounding with regret.

_That's all I ask of-_

In one swift move, Christine pulled off the mask and wig, exposing his face, lit up with a grimace, the deformity sending many people in the audience screaming, raising their hands to the level of their eyes...

Henri gasped, his hands flying to his face in horror. The deformity was terrible, raised red marks, pitted holes, his hair thin, blonde and flyaway, the deformity continuing underneath it. It was more hideous, more terrible than he remembered it being.

Many gendarmes raised their weapons, and Raoul ran from his box to rescue his fiancée

The Phantom's smile left his face instantly, his heart filling with pain and betrayal. He promised her everything, and this was what he got? He looked sadly at Christine, whose eyes looked back at him, pitying, full of apologies, but useless...

Taking a deep breath, the Phantom steeled himself for the next part of the plan... he felt exposed, like his every secret had been told to everyone, the screams of the audience ripping through him, reminding him of the little boy who was tortured at the gypsy camp.

Everyone thought him a monster now... even Christine. She had unmasked him. She had betrayed him in the worst way possible. It hurt... _God_ it hurt... and rather than give in to the pain, The Phantom grasped at it and spun it round, his eyes sparking with fury.

Looking out at the large, glass chandelier, the Phantom's mind was made up. He saw the gendarmes running through the audience armed with guns, and he knew he did not want to die. He would make her love him, if it was the last thing he ever did.

With a grunt of anger, the Phantom grabbed Christine round the waist, and swung his sword at a rope... the only rope, thanks to his tinkering, holding up the chandelier.

With a kick, the Phantom opened a trap door, sending him and Christine falling into the catacombs under the opera house, and a loud tinkling noise preceded the descent of the Chandelier.

Henri and his mother leapt out of their seats with yells of horror, throwing themselves to the floor to avoid it, while it crashed its way towards the stage, the orchestra diving out of the way as it fell towards them, landing next to the stage and exploding, a huge fire starting and setting the stage alight, the audience members screaming and running, Henri and his mother running, not out of the opera house, but into it, the heat of the flames roaring around them.

Raoul swung down a rope onto the stage while the windows of the opera house exploded outwards, the raging fire consuming them.

Henri and his mother ran backstage, hearing Raoul approach Antoinette Giry.

"Where did he take her?" he demanded, and Antoinette stopped for a second before making a decision.

"Come with me, monsieur, I will take you to him. But remember, keep your hand at the level of your eyes!"

Meg approached them from behind "I'll come with you!"

Antoinette shook her head, "No, Meg, No. You must stay here." She told her daughter, who turned around, attempting to stop the crowd, but Henri and his mother managed to slip past her.

Antoinette ran off, dragging Raoul. "come with me, monsieur, do as I say."

The Phantom dragged Christine by her wrist, one hand gripping a flaming torch, his deformity flickering in the light, his scalp almost visible through his thin hair.

_Down once more to the dungeon  
Of my black despair,  
Down we plunge to the prison  
Of my mind,  
Down that path into darkness  
Deep as hell!_

Running, the Phantom dragged Christine, whose breath came out in fearful pants, unable to speak in the face of his fury. The Phantom stopped suddenly, turning to rant at her, his voice commanding attention and causing her to cringe in fear.

"Why, you ask was I bound and chained in this cold and dismal place? Not for any mortal sin, but the wickedness of my abundant face!" he shouted, his eyes shining with betrayal and fury. What had he done to deserve this life?

In the distance, and chant begun...

_Track down this murderer, he must be found..._

_Track down this murderer, he must be found..._

Deeper they winded their way into the catacombs...

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**hello! Please review? It makes my day and for the last one, I only got one review :(( and i know from Story stats that I had 28 visitors to the last chapter... :(**

**Anyway, until next time!  
**


	39. Chapter 39

**Heyy :) I own nothing! Still! Enjoy the chapter!  
**

* * *

**Chapter 39**

The Phantom dragged Christine – panicking and fearful – all the way to his lair, throwing her in the boat and rowing across quickly, his face greased in encompassing fury.

As they reached the opposite shore, he grabbed her again, holding her tight as she struggled, unable to see her pain, unable to feel her trembles of terror.

"_Hounded out by everyone! Met with hatred everywhere!"_

He dragged her over to his Christine dummy, her eyes wide, uncomprehending. His eyes as he looked at her were furious, yet full of pain. His anger was born through sorrow... Never ending...

"_No kind words from anyone! No compassion anywhere!"_

He gripped her tightly, looking deeply into her eyes, his own stormy and green, turmoil ridden.

"_Christine..._ Why? _Why?" _He shook her, but she said nothing, only watching him with wide, fearful eyes. He turned from her, drawing in a shuddering breath.

Antoinette showed Raoul the way through the dressing room into the catacombs, winding her way through the darkness, until they reached a spiral staircase. Neither of them bothered to look behind them to where Henri and his mother crept along silently.

"_Your hand at the level of your eyes_." Antoinette warned the viscount, who looked confused, but complied, raising his hand next to his face as she bade him.

Antoinette stopped, turning to Raoul. She could not bear it any longer. She felt she was betraying Erik... she shook her head. "This is as far as I dare go." She told him, pretending to be scared of Erik – well he _was_ furious, so therefore, he would be very dangerous, but she could not bear to betray his faith in her.

The viscount turned to her, "thank you." He muttered, before turning to face forwards, removing his jacket as he jogged down the stairs. Antoinette turned away, and Henri and Madame Dupet ducked into a niche as she passed them. As soon as she was past, they crept out of their hiding place to hear a **clang** and a shout of surprise as Raoul fell through a trap door. Looking at each other, Erik's family could not find it in themselves to feel pity for the boy, and jogged carefully down the stairs, making sure to avoid any trap doors.

Raoul had felt the ground disappear from beneath his feet and let out a cry of shock as he fell, down, down... Until, with a mighty **splash** he felt himself submerged in water. Trying to contain his surprise, Raoul desperately swum, spluttering, to the surface, where a loud, grating noise made him look up at the metal grate descending upon him. His eyes widened in horror, and he looked around desperately. He could see the way out, but there was no way he could swim there in time before the grate was upon him.

Taking a deep breath, he dived into the water, his eyes squinting into the blurred, dark world; he kicked out towards a wheel he'd seen at the edge of the trap, his heart pounding.

With a grimace, he tried desperately to turn it, but it was incredibly stiff, and his lungs were crying out for oxygen. Cursing the Phantom in his mind, Raoul valiantly kicked his way to the surface of the water, gasping in a lungful of air just as the grate reached the surface of the water.

Pushing off the grate, Raoul returned to the wheel, grimacing as he tried determinedly to turn it. Looking up at the approaching grate spelling his doom, Raoul used all his strength to _finally_ turn the wheel, a fraction at a time.

With a metallic sound of something falling, the grate began to rise again, and Raoul desperately kicked his way to the surface, gasping in lungfuls of sweet, sweet air as he pulled his way out of the trap to find his fiancée, his mind spinning.

Down and down they went, the darkness pressing in on them on all sides. Raised voices in the distance guided them slightly. Henri held tightly to his mother's arm, determined not to lose her.

"This place is horrid." He whispered, because it did not seem the place to talk loudly. "How can someone bear to _live_ here?" he continued, his eyes desperately trying to penetrate the darkness, wishing he had brought a torch and feeling his way along the walls.

Madame Dupet sighed sadly. "Why should anyone feel the need to live in a place such as this?" she returned, feeling sympathy and guilt for her past sins.

The Phantom threw the wedding dress at Christine. She looked at him in horror, but with one look in his terrifying eyes, she grabbed the clothes and went into the swan room to change.

As he waited, the Phantom picked up the old engagement ring he had taken off Christine at the masquerade ball. He stared at it, thoughtfully. She would be his... His plan was working, and soon, hopefully, the viscount would be joining them. He smirked, watching the diamonds glitter in the candlelight.

"_Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood?"_

Christine's angry voice echoed around his lair, and the Phantom looked up, his eyes meeting a vision of beauty. The dress was pure white, like her soul... her soul, which would cleanse his black one. Her hair fell round her shoulders in ringlets, and her cheeks were flushed with colour...

Her eyes though, were full of anger and dislike.

"_Am I now to be prey to your lust for flesh?"_

The Phantom's eyes widened and he turned to face her as she approached him.

"_That fate which condemns me to wallow in blood."_ He spat, _"has also denied me the joys of the flesh."_

He reached out for her face, hopefully, but she turned away, a disgusted look in her eyes. The Phantom's heart filled with rejection, and his eyes turned downwards.

"_This face, the infection, which poisons our love..."_ Christine turned back to him, her eyes filled with disbelief. The Phantom continued bitterly. _"This face which earned a mother's fear and loathing..."_ he took the veil from the mannequin, turning back to Christine. _"A mask, my first unfeeling scrap of clothing."_ He slammed the veil onto her head, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. _"Pity comes too late."_

He grabbed her and turned her to face him, _"turn around and face your fate... an eternity of __**this**__"_ he gestured to his disfigurement, _"before your eyes." _Lifting her hand, he placed the engagement ring inside it, curling the fingers around it.

Christine took a step back, tugging the veil off her head, her forehead creased in a frown.

"_This haunted face holds no horror for me now."_ She admitted, and the Phantom's chest swelled like a balloon, his heart filling with hope as he stared at her. She tugged a cover off one of the mirrors, before turning back and finishing the comment. His hands trembled with hope.

"_It's in your soul that the true distortion lies." _And with that, the balloon popped, and his heart cracked a little bit... she would never choose him... oh, and perfect timing, the Phantom noted, as he spied a certain viscount outside the closed grating to his lair.

The Phantom spoke "_wait. I think my dear, we have a guest."_ He gestured at the man, who looked like he had just swum the lake... the Phantom grinned manically at that thought. He addressed Raoul, "Sir."

"Raoul!" Christine cried out, running to the shore of the lake.

The Phantom ignored her, also walking to the shore. "_This is indeed, an unparalleled delight. I had rather hoped that you would come!" _The Phantom made his way over to where Christine stood,. _"And now, my wish comes true, you have truly made my night."_ He wrapped an arm round Christine, who struggled, crying out:

"Let me go!"

Raoul stood behind the gates, trying desperately to find a way in, but there was none. "_Free her!"_ he begged of the Phantom, "_do what you like, only free her!"_ he stretched an arm through the bars as the Phantom smirked and stood away from Christine. "_Have you no pity?" _His eyes sparkled with unshed tears in his terror.

The Phantom grinned at Christine, "_your lover makes a passionate plea."_ He noted casually.

Christine looked to Raoul sadly, _"please, Raoul, it's useless."_

Raoul stretched through the bars once more. "_I love her! Does that mean nothing? I love her_!" the Phantom turned away, not caring. _"Show some compassion!"_

The Phantom whipped round at his words, his eyes flashing, shouting. "_The world showed no compassion to me!"_

Raoul continued to beg. "_Christine, Christine... let me see her!"_

The Phantom smirked, turning to the pulley that opened the gates, "_Be my guest, sir."_ He muttered, pulling it and opening the gate. The Phantom then walked towards where Raoul was coming through the gate, his voice mocking.

"_Monsieur, I bid you welcome."_ He walked into the lake, his tone sarcastic. _"Did you think that I would harm her?"_ Raoul had entered the lair, looking up at the grate. The Phantom continued. _"Why would I make her pay, for the sins-"_ he bent down and Raoul looked over his shoulder at the closing grate,_ "which are yours?"_ The Phantom concluded, lifting a rope out of the water and lassoing it round Raoul's neck, who choked and gagged, causing Christine to cry out, her hands flying to her face, and her eyes widening. _No!_

The Phantom launched himself at Raoul, pressing him against the grate, using the rope to tie him to it. His voice was angry with a hint of madness, "_Order your fine horses now! Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes! Nothing can save you now, except perhaps Christine..."_ The Phantom finished tying a struggling Raoul to the grate, before turning to Christine, his eyes softening slightly, but still menacing, and ranting at her.

"_Start a new life with me! Buy his freedom with your love! Refuse me and send your lover to his death! This is the choice! This is the point of no return!"_ He cried, and Christine looked horrified, looking from the struggling Raoul to the mad-eyed Phantom whom she had once loved.

Henri and his mother splashed their way across the lake, hiding round the corner as they approached the lair to hear the girl, Christine uttering her reply.

"_The tears I might have shed for your dark fate grow cold and turn to tears of hate!"_ she cried, and the Phantom tried to ignore the pain in his chest these words provoked.

Raoul struggled against his bonds, pleading, _"Christine, forgive me! Please forgive me! I did it all for you, and all for nothing!"_

Christine, at the same time, looked at the floor, saying bitterly, _"Farewell, my fallen idol and false friend. We had such hope and now those hopes are shattered."_

The Phantom watched Christine as he told her (at the same time), _"Too late for turning back, too late for prayers and useless pity!"_

Henri and his mother watched the scene unfold in horror... what had the small, bullied child become? Madame Dupet gasped quietly, her hands flying to her mouth... what had she done?

Raoul begged Christine, _"Say you love me, and my life is over!"_

The Phantom approached Raoul, holding a noose, chanting over Raoul's cries, _"Past, all hope of cries of help! No point in fighting!"_

Together, Raoul and the Phantom cried at Christine, _"(for) either way you choose, he has to win (you cannot win)!"_ The Phantom pulled the noose tight around Raoul's neck, and reached up to hook it over the metal grate above him, while crying _"So do you end your days with me, or do you send him to his __**grave**__?_" he pulled the rope, and Raoul gagged a little, his eyes rolling, but trying not to show it to Christine.

Madame Dupet's hands flew to her face, and she began chanting, "No, no, no, no, no!" quietly to herself.

Raoul bravely spat at the Phantom, _"why make her lie to you to save me?"_ he demanded.

Christine began to sing quietly, "_Angel of music..."_

Over the top, Raoul shouted, "for pity's sake, Christine! Say no!"

Christine continued, "_Who deserved this?"_

The Phantom tugged on the rope again, "_The final threshold..."_

Raoul continued, "_Don't throw your life away for my sake!"_

Madame Dupet made forwards, but Henri tugged on her arm, shaking his head at her slightly, _not yet..._

The Phantom was speaking, "_His life is now the price which you must earn!"_

Christine sung, "_Why do you curse mercy?"_

Raoul was getting desperate, _"I fought so hard to free you!" _he said, looking straight at Christine, his eyes deep and sad, still struggling against his bonds.

Christine and the Phantom were left, speaking over each other.

"_Angel of music..." _Christine sung.

The Phantom's voice was more desperate, angrier. "_You've passed the Point of no return!"_

Christine's voice was sad. "_You deceived me."_ She accused, "I gave you my mind blindly!"

The Phantom shook his head. "You try my patience." He said, "Make your choice!" to emphasise his point, he tugged again on the rope around Raoul's neck, who gagged again, coughing slightly.

Henri ran a hand through his hair, still holding on to his mother, who was watching the scene with fear in her eyes... she had made this monster.

_She remembered when, just before Erik left, she was standing in the kitchen, and the small child with flyaway blonde hair, a cloth mask tied over the right hand side of his face had ambled in. His eyes were so frightened, but innocent, excited for the 'trip to the gypsy camp later on' as he looked up at her and stammered, wringing his hands._

"_Um. Would it be ok. Um. I mean, am I allowed to. Um. Can I - ?" he had bitten his lip, anxiously._

"_What is it, Erik?" she had asked, curiously._

"_Can I hug you?" he'd asked in a rush, going pink, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of misery... she had not wanted him to go. With a quick glance to check her husband was not around, she remembered kneeling before him and pulling him into a soft, quick hug._

_She remembered how, when he had stepped away, he had looked at the floor, and smiled a little. "Thank you, mother." He had said, ever so politely._

And what had he become now?

What had she done?

A tear slid down her face as she watched the scene unfold.

Christine was walking towards the Phantom, her eyes large and sad.

_Pitiful creature of darkness,  
What kind of life have you known?_

She waded through the water to where the Phantom stood unsurely, watching her carefully, his hands still clutching at the ropes.

_God give me courage to show you  
You are not alone!_

Sliding the ring onto her finger, she reached up to the Phantom stood in front of her, hooking an arm round his neck and pulling him down to her, pressing his lips against hers.

The Phantom froze, and every nerve in his body tingled, and his eyes fluttered closed.

After what seemed like forever and no time at all, Christine pulled away slightly, looking into his eyes unsurely, panting slightly, before pulling him close again and pressing their lips together once more.

She rested her hand against the deformity on the right side of his face, and that was the final straw.

Silently, the Phantom fled, leaving only Erik behind, the small child rescued from the gypsies, the one who had, at a very young age, blushed as he politely asked his mother for a hug.

He felt vulnerable again, like he was curled in a ball on the floor, his father stood over him, the whistle of the belt filling his ears before the inescapable pain as it collided with his raw skin.

He felt her lips moving against his, her body pressed to him, and his heart swelled and broke, knowing that he could not do this any longer.

When she pulled away, looking carefully into his eyes, he broke. Tears spilled from his eyes, and he turned desperately away, frightened for her to see his weakness.

"Take him," he sobbed, gesturing towards Raoul, "take him, forget me, forget all of this." He reached the shore, "leave me alone." He sobbed.

This was too much for Madame Dupet, who, with one look at Henri, who nodded, ran forwards to where, on the other side of the grate, Raoul and Christine stopped embracing and looked up at her, surprised.

"_**ERIK!"**_ she cried, reaching through the bars.

Erik froze, his eyes widening... that was not Antoinette's voice... he span on his heel to see the unfamiliar old woman reaching through the bars, the younger man stood warily behind her.

"Who on earth are you?" he demanded, his breathing rapid in fright. He looked warily over at Christine and Raoul, looking between him and them curiously...

"And... and how..." he swallowed nervously, looking at Christine again.

"How do you know my name?"

Christine gasped.

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**So that's where it varies from the original storyline :) I hope you like it :) I will have the last chapter up on Friday XD**

**Thanks for reading! Review please!**

**Oreal  
**


	40. Chapter 40

**Here you go! The final Chapter! It has been a while, and I can't really bellieve it's done! :( **

**I own nothing...  
**

* * *

**Chapter 40**

"_Who on earth are you?" he demanded, his breathing rapid in fright. He looked warily over at Christine and Raoul, looking between him and them curiously..._

"_And... and how..." he swallowed nervously, looking at Christine again._

"_How do you know my name?"_

_Christine gasped._

Erik glared at Henri and Madame Dupet angrily, demanding them to tell him what he needed to know. Nobody knew his name! Nobody except Antoinette Giry, and he knew she wouldn't tell anyone... would she? He narrowed his eyes slightly, but the Phantom had fled, and Erik felt bare and empty and alone. What did these people want with him? Why now, when he was exceptionally weak, when his heart felt shattered and empty?

Madame Dupet stared into her son's eyes hungrily; she had not seen him for so long... He was so real! And a man... the last she had seen – properly – he had been hiding in the Gypsy camp, beaten and abused, his small eyes innocent and pleading.

Henri stepped forwards, setting his hand on his mother's arm, and looking out at his brother.

"Well?" Erik demanded, his hands shaking, very much aware of his deformity on show, his weakness.

"Erik." Madame Dupet began to speak; her eyes trained on his vulnerable and scared ones, but he was determined not to show it. "My name is Madame Dupet."

Erik frowned, that name... it was familiar, as if from a dream, or a nightmare. He looked to the man, about his age, stood next to her. Henri gulped, his eyes dropping to the floor.

"I am Henri Dupet." He whispered, and then Erik remembered.

He gasped and stumbled backwards, as a barrage of memories attacked him, of his lying prone on the floor, his arms thrown up to protect him as his father stood over him, his brother stood next to him, his golden hair glinting, his eyes menacing, laughing.

"_You!"_ Erik hissed, his eyes darkening in hatred.

He lunged towards the bars, and Christine darted out of the way, but Erik paid her no heed, his eyes fixed on his brother, who watched him warily. He slammed into the bars, and Henri yelled in fear, backing away from the pure hate shining out of his brother's eyes.

"I'm sorry!" Henri gasped out, "I was a child!"

Erik growled at him through the bars, "It's your fault!" he cried, "I _hate_ you! I could have had a life! I could have been content!" His eyes narrowed as his voice dropped to a menacing whisper, "I should _kill_ you for what you did to me!"

Christine whimpered. Who _were_ these people?

"And you!" Erik turned to his mother, "I never did anything wrong!" he cried, tears beginning to run down his cheeks as he felt again like the small child with no friends, who couldn't understand why his own mother hated him.

"You shunned me." His voice became a sad whimper, "I was a child. I didn't know what I'd done. I thought what you did to me was normal." He backed away, "but of course. I was a monster. What was it? The devil?" he lowered his gaze, "I was a _child."_ He repeated, his voice cracking, "and no child deserves that. You have no idea... no idea how much it _hurt_, to try and try to impress you. To be shunned, and hated, by my own mother. I tried _everything_! But you never saw past _him_!" he gestured at Henri, whose face was full of shame.

Madame Dupet's face was wet with tears. "There was nothing I could do!" she cried out, "My husband would have killed me!"

Erik turned away from them. "Go." He growled, "I never want to see you again." He glanced at Christine and Raoul, who were staring, their mouths agog. "_Any_ of you." He pressed.

Then he heard it...

_Track down this murderer, he must be found!_

_Track down this murderer, he must be found!_

He yanked the lever to open the gate, to let Raoul and Christine out, his eyes widening worriedly. He did not wish to be found by the mob. Christine and Raoul did not move, but his brother and mother did, splashing their way into his lair.

"Go!" he growled at them, "Do you have a death wish?" his eyes darted to the entrance of the lair, where the voices were growing louder.

"What about you?" Henri demanded, "How are you getting out?"

Erik narrowed his eyes. "What if I don't want to get out?" he hissed, watching warily to see if the mob was close.

Christine whimpered, stepping away from Raoul. "You can't!" she half screamed, and Erik's gaze snapped to hers... he had almost forgotten she was there. Her face was pale and damp with tears as she pleaded with him, "You can't just give up!"

Erik scoffed, "what do I have to live for?" he asked her quietly, and she gasped before giving a helpless sob and turning into Raoul's arms.

Henri stepped forwards, and Erik flinched away from him, a flash of the past lighting in his eyes. "Don't touch me." He growled, warningly.

The splashing grew louder, and Erik could hear the mob approaching.

"Goddamn it!" he cried, "Why don't you just leave? Leave me in peace! Get the hell out of here!" Raoul was frowning at him, trying to get Christine away from the danger zone, but she was determined to stay.

"You have to leave." Christine said imploringly, and Erik couldn't help but let his gaze soften as he looked at her. "Please." She begged, "Please, Erik."

Erik gasped, and his eyes filled with tears, so he turned his face away to hide his shame. He could not deny her... not when she spoke his name with such... care.

"Damn you Christine!" he cried, turning from the group and lifting a candelabra, hearing the mob getting louder in every second. "Why couldn't you just go?"

He brought the candelabra down, smashing it with such force into a mirror that it shattered into a million pieces, raining down, glinting in a rainbow of colours. Ignoring the distant pain of glass embedded in his skin, Erik held back the curtain above the mirror to reveal a secret passage out of the lair, and he stepped back.

"Go!" he growled at them, and finally, they did as he told, as the roar of the mob grew louder, they disappeared into the passage, Erik leading the way, Madame Dupet and Henri straining their eyes to see his figure as they followed, Christine – with Raoul's arm around her protectively – brought up the rear.

Step after step, they inched along the dark passage, Erik easily leading them through the catacombs until, after it seemed eternity had passed, he pushed open a door revealing the starry skies above them and the dimly lit streets of Paris at night.

Erik felt far too naked as he felt the cool air against his deformity, and cautiously pressed his hand against the side of his face, cursing himself for not bringing his mask, or even a cloak.

He turned back to the others.

"There." He growled, "I'm out. Now go!"

Raoul tugged on Christine's arm. "Come _on_, Christine!" he implored her, "let's get out of here!"

Christine placed a hand on his arm and begged one more minute of him. Frustrated, Raoul crossed his arms, but nodded, watching her warily as she approached Erik.

Erik's green eye glinted in the dark, one hand still pressed against his face. He watched her approach, his heart desperate for her to have changed her mind, to have chosen him... _please God. I don't know how much more I can take of this..._

Christine stood in front of Erik, her hand reaching up and taking hold of the one covering his face, pulling it down. Erik turned his face away from her, distressed.

"Look at me." Christine muttered, and Erik's eyes felt drawn to hers, unable to disobey her simple demand. "I'm sorry." She told him, and his eyes – not looking away – filled with pain again.

"Please." He whispered, "Don't draw it out. Just go."

Christine's brown eyes filled with tears and she tugged the ring off her finger, reaching out for his hand and curling his fingers around it. Erik looked down at it, trying to hold back the sobs, as he clutched at the ring.

"I'll never forget you." Erik told her sadly. "I love you so much." He brought his hand up to trace her face gently, his breath catching, before lowering his hand and his eyes.

"Go." He said once more, and she stepped away from him, walking back to Raoul, who took her in his arms, sending a flash of pain across Erik's face, and the older man closed his eyes against the image.

"Goodbye, Erik." Christine whispered, and Erik's eyes flashed open to connect with hers one last time before she disappeared into the night.

Erik breath caught in a sob as she vanished from view, backing against the wall, bringing his hands to his face and sliding down the wall until he was hunched into a ball on the floor, his shoulders shaking.

Henri looked at him helplessly, his eyes damp, feeling his entire self consumed in guilt.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, looking at his feet, but Erik ignored him, rocking slightly, flashes of images cascading through his mind.

He kept muttering to himself, "Gone... she's gone... Oh Christine... I love you... Why? ... Gone... Gone forever..." Then he could no longer speak over the sobs wracking his body.

Madame Dupet crouched down next to him, and set a hand on his shoulder.

Erik flinched away, opening his wide, green, agonisingly vulnerable eyes, and looking at her.

"Mother..." he muttered, and she enveloped him in her arms.

"Oh, Erik." She said sadly, "I'm so sorry. God, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault... All my fault."

Erik just shook with sobs, leaning desperately into his mothers embrace.

Henri sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes trained upon his mother and his brother, desperately trying to hold themselves together, ripped apart by the past and desperately trying to fix what was broken.

Hopefully, Erik would one day forgive him for what he'd done.

Hopefully, Erik would be able to heal.

But for now, they sat in the darkness, the starry skies glinting far above them as they clung to each other, the promises of the future dim and unsure.

**The End**

* * *

**Thank you so much to everyone who has read, and especially those who have taken the time to review. I hope you have enjoyed Lonely Angel... I do not think there will be a sequel - Go and watch Love Never Dies if you want one. But thankyou so much, it is you lot who have kept me going all this time. **

**So one last time, I beg your opinions I value so much...**

**Thankyou so much for the last time...  
**

**Oreal  
**


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